


see the stars again

by radiantbeams



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Identity, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, bc fuck that movie, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-07-08 16:33:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiantbeams/pseuds/radiantbeams
Summary: Bucky stared at the smoke coming off of his cigarette. He sighed, hanging his head and pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I’m so lost, Steve.”Steve took a risk and reached out to grip the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket. He leaned forward, holding on tightly to Bucky’s shoulder and pressed their foreheads together. He breathed out shakily and tried to keep his voice steady.“I’ve got you, Buck-- I’ve found you.”--Everyone’s always searching for something; it’s knowing when you’ve found it that’s the hard part.





	1. Part 1 - James Buchanan Barnes

**Author's Note:**

> Many many many thanks to my best pal [Madi](https://sighsofthetimes.tumblr.com/) for helping me, I couldn't have done it without you and you know it. 
> 
> This was written for [Courtney's](http://captainrogerrsbeard.tumblr.com/post/175693496535/i-wanted-to-celebrate-my-400-followers-with-a-fun) 400 follower celebration :) I have had a lot of fun writing this!
> 
> Please pay attention to the headings, especially the time. Every other scene is a random flashback to WWII/pre-WWII stucky. The modern day scenes, while not seamlessly continuous, do have a linear progression of time.

### Washington, District of Columbia, USA - 2014

_“You’re my friend.”_

The target’s pained words rattled around in the soldier’s head for what seemed like eternity after the mission. The _failed_ mission. The soldier had never failed a mission before, but that wasn’t the only thing that was confusing to him. The longer the soldier kept himself MIA, the more his mind became simultaneously more clear and more muddled. Sparing the target’s life, _saving_ the target’s life, hadn’t felt like a failed mission. It felt like -- something; some emotion or memory that was just out of reach.

He’d gotten his hands on some civvies, staring at his face in the mirror for a long time while he changed into them. It felt like watching a stranger. Something had been broken; the soldier wasn’t following protocol. He didn’t look at himself in mirrors, he didn’t spare people’s lives, and he didn’t linger after a mission had been compromised. He completed his assignments and followed his orders. That’s what the soldier had been programmed to do. There was a throbbing in the front of his skull that seemed to get worse each time he resisted the flow of routine.

He lurked, stayed back and watched, trying to decide what the next move would be. What _his_ next move would be. By now he had gleaned that Pierce was dead, and Hydra was all but disbanded. There was no one left to give him orders, and it didn’t feel right. _This_ wasn’t right. Something was off, just like it had been before...but, no, the soldier couldn’t remember before. His thoughts were like wisps of smoke: impossible to hold onto but still so overwhelming.

In that haze, he sought out a small cafe. Something busy enough to be a stranger in, but empty enough to keep down the risk of being spotted. He’d done undercover work before. Undercover reconnaissance-- that’s all this was.

The soldier flexed his gloved hand at his side, the metal coiling, ready for action while he sat outside the café. The sun shined on his back and he could feel sweat trickling down to pool against his collar. His eyes never wavered from the television screen displaying the news just inside the doorway. He struggled to keep up with the English subtitles, he wasn’t sure why it surprised him, just an inkling feeling in the back of his head that understanding should come more naturally. _Secrets exposed_. ‘ _Corrupt Government’_ , _‘Hydra’_ , and ‘ _many casualties’_ , seemed to be the phrases used most often.

The soldier’s brow twitched, he felt restless. His skin crawled whenever they displayed an image of _Captain America_ on screen. When he looked down, he noticed his right hand was shaking. The soldier clenched it into a fist, but it still shook.

A waitress made her way over to his table, carafe in hand. She looked like she was about to speak. But he quickly pulled his cap further down over his face, turning away and flicking his eyes down to the newspaper spread out in front of him.

The soldier knew what to do from here. He had his orders, his training. _Mission failed_ . _Hydra compromised_ . _Return to base in Novosibirsk for further instruction._ He wedged a few bills under the cup and saucer and disappeared into the crowd.

 

### Brooklyn, NY, USA - 1934

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky said, spying Steve’s scuffed leather brogues next to the tire of the truck he was in the middle of fixing.

“Got a sandwich for you; Mamma packed extra.” He heard Steve say, kicking Bucky lightly in the shin as he passed by, no doubt to perch on the stack of old tires in the corner of the shop like he always did.

Bucky rolled his eyes, ratcheting his wrench tighter around one of the lug nuts holding up the chassis. “Keep tellin’ her she don’t have to do that. We get by.” His voice strained as he struggled against the bolt, finally managing to get it lose. Totally stripped bare, just as he thought. Bucky pushed himself out from underneath the truck, grinning as he looked at his friend.

“She worries about you.” Steve shrugged. He dug around in his backpack, looking for a piece of charcoal, probably.

Bucky huffed, wiping his brow with-- fuck, that was the oil rag, not the sweat rag. Steve laughed at him, causing Bucky to blush and turn away to hide his face.

“She’s got enough to worry about. I don’t need to be on the list.” He took the paper bag Steve held out to him anyway. Mrs. Rogers was right, he hadn’t eaten today. They’d gotten to the end of the peanut butter jar that morning, just enough for the rest of his siblings.

Steve gave him a look to say, _you’re kidding, right?_

He finished the sandwich in three big bites, already moving over to his toolbox to continue working. If he could just get this one job done then he could walk with Steve back home. He always felt better when he saw for himself that Steve made it home safe, kid had a knack for finding trouble.

“Learn anything cool at school today?” Bucky asked, laying back down on the creeper to get underneath the body of the truck again.

“No, not really.” He could almost hear Steve’s shrug.

“Let me guess, head in the clouds the entire time? Didn’t listen to a thing.” Bucky smirked, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he continued to work.

Steve chuckled. No one else was in the shop that afternoon, and if Bucky stayed really still, he could hear the little scratches Steve’s pencil made against the paper as he sketched. It was familiar-- pleasant, it reminded him of all the times they’d stay up late; Steve in too much pain to sleep and Bucky tired of listening to his Pop drink himself into a stupor. Steve would sketch and Bucky would read and sometimes Steve would show him his creation in the early morning light, but most of the time he kept it to himself. He wondered what he was drawing this time.

“I tried, Buck. I really did this time. But Calculus is so boring. And hard.” He complained.

“Let me take a look at it later,” Bucky said before blowing into the dusty emptiness underneath the car, “I can probably figure it out.” He’d not gotten to Calculus before he had to drop out, but he’d always had a knack for math.

“ _Of course you could_.” Steve muttered under his breath. “Sure. Come over after supper.” He added a bit louder.

School was never Steve’s thing. Always more interested in blank sheets of paper and dark pencils. Which was fine, but Bucky would do anything to go back. He had been so close to finishing when he dropped out last year, but a job was more important now.Bucky wondered if a job would _always_ be more important.

He slid out from under the chassis, going over to get another set of tools. “You gonna let me see what you’re drawing this time?” Bucky asked, peering over Steve’s shoulder.

Steve shook his head, clutching his sketchbook close to his chest. He glared up at Bucky, shaggy blond hair falling over his eyes. “No! Don’t look! And don’t try anything, Bucky. I mean it. It’s private.”

“What is it Stevie?” He teased, reaching to wrestle it out of his arms. “Some pinup with a nice rack? Something real naughty, I bet. Bet it’s of that broad, Minnie?” Steve squacked, making futile attempts to thwart him. “Yeah I know you got a crush on her!” He laughed, giving up and shoving playfully at Steve’s shoulder.

“Shut up, Bucky!” He said, a bright red flush crawling up his neck. “I do not!”

Bucky sat back on one of the roller seats, smiling at him. “Tell that to them rosey cheeks. Can’t hide nothin’ from me, Rogers.” He tapped his finger against his temple.

Steve groaned, putting his face in his hands. Bucky winked at him before getting back to work.

Later that night, when Steve was busy washing the dishes his Mamma had left after supper, Bucky took the chance to steal a glance at Steve’s sketchbook. He paled as his eyes raked over the elegant charcoal lines-- it wasn’t some strippy pinup girl after all, but instead a portrait or a strapping young lad, hair pushed back, grease stain on his chin, and a toothy smile. Cold sweat sprung up across the back of his neck, heartbeat rushing in his ears as he leaned closer and realized, without a doubt, that the boy in the portrait was him.

 

### Novosibirsk, Siberia, Russia - 2014

The soldier scrubbed furiously at the blood drying under the fingernails of his right hand. His discarded shirt bled red into the already murky bathwater where he had tossed it. The lights overhead in the motel bathroom flickered and he tensed, pausing to listen for any sign of an attack. It must have just been faulty wiring. He picked up the soap again, redoubling his efforts.

When he was finally clean, he clicked off the light in the ensuite. It left the room startlingly dark. The curtains were drawn tight, barricade at the door. The only light came from the dim reading lamp in the corner, and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. He positioned himself on the bed so he could keep an eye on both the exit and the window. He placed one of his guns on the bedside table; the barrel made an awkward clank against the cheap wood. The soldier pulled a file out of his pack. There was a smattering of blood across the cover, crimson droplets staining the Hydra symbol.

_Prisoner #56898 - Winter Soldier_

He flipped it open, seeing what he now understood as his own face pinned to the top of the stack. He pulled it from under the paperclip and brought it up closer. The photograph looked old, weathered around the edges. The soldier blinked a few times, trying to stave off the painful throbbing behind his eyes. It hadn’t let up-- not since he left DC almost four days ago. It seemed to be getting worse, too.

He set aside the photograph, moving on to read the first page of print.

_Subject Name: James Buchanan Barnes_

James. That name didn’t sound familiar to him. He kept reading. The first page wasn’t important, height, weight, eye color. The next few were more vital. They detailed the experiments done on Sergeant Barnes in captivity. Most of them were dated in the 40’s, but there were some all the way until the early 90’s. The subject’s reactions were also recorded, and, oddly, the soldier could almost remember those. The taste of metal at the back of his mouth, fire burning through his veins, straining so hard against the straps of the examination table he gave himself a fractured wrist.

Doctor Arnim Zola was mentioned often.

 _Zola_ .This name... the soldier could recognize it. He could still see those beady little eyes peering down at him, the pointy teeth of his smile. _“The new fist of Hydra.”_ echoed in the soldier’s head with his horribly grating Swiss accent.  

The soldier ran his metal hand over the doctor’s script in the file. Becoming distracted, he held it out in front of him, observing how the metal plates shifted and moved. He never took much notice of his arm during missions, only using it as a tool. Zola had given it to him, but even the memories of that moment were fuzzy. He felt a phantom pain where the metal fused to his skin, heard a whirr of a bone saw buzzing in his ears and a cold sweat crawled down his spine. The soldier shook his head to clear it, flipping forward a few pages.

Logically, the soldier knew that James was him. This man, along with his own reflection, were both strangers to him, but they were undoubtedly the same person.

The name ‘ _James_ ’ didn’t feel right. Referring to himself without one, though, was beginning to feel unnatural too. _Soldat_ was the only title given to him in years. He tried hard to remember a time when people called him something else, something different. He knew there had to be at least one memory, but there wasn’t one that he could recall.

James read on about the Winter Soldier’s missions, remembering each one in vivid detail. Prague. Chechnya. Dallas. Mumbai. All spanning years and years. None of this was new to him. They had worked on his brain specifically so he could remember these missions and nothing else. Mission report, any given number, and the soldier could give every continuous fact, even what the weather was like. But this wasn’t the information he was after. He couldn’t quite say exactly what he had hoped to learn, but it wasn’t this.

He turned to the photograph again. In the picture, James was wearing an American uniform, a Sergeant rank on his right sleeve. He had on a bit of a crooked smile; one that looked easy, familiar and settled. The soldier tried to remember when the photograph was taken. He closed his eyes tightly and willed something, anything, from that time to resurface. But nothing came.

Methodically and meticulously, James read through the rest of the file. Each page, each mission, floated a specific memory to the forefront of his mind, pushing the previous one out. It did little to relieve his confusion surrounding the continuity of his life. All it seemed to do was leave him, impossibly, more frustrated and hopeless.

 

### Somewhere along the border of Germany and Poland - 1944

Bucky had been colder and more miserable than he was in that moment, he knew he had. He kept telling himself that it could be worse, that he’d gotten through worse. But of course his insincere complacencies weren’t doing much to help. It hadn’t stopped raining for what seemed like weeks. There was a perpetual chill to his bones that he just couldn’t shake. The cold was becoming a pressing constant just like the overbearing sense of fear and being watched. These things were the horrible nightmares of war that no amount of sergeant preaching could prepare a soldier for.

At home, everyone had thought soldiers were out here living harrowing tales of majestic glory. The reality was far bleaker, far grittier, and far less romantic. Bones ached like old wood; cold came and eased its way into the skin, taking hold so that no amount of preventative measure could drive it away; rain-wet clothes, drenched additionally in sweat, stayed damp for ages after, seeping into the skin during subsequent weeks of wear. None of that compared, though, to the ice chilling fear that ran down the spine at any startling or unknown experience. He’d seen even the rustle of a startled deer be enough to send a soldier spiraling into panic. Nothing about war was as valiant as people thought.

A battered tin mug of coffee waved in front of his face. It looked dark and warm and was probably the most wonderful thing he’d seen all day. Bucky looked up to see Gabe holding it out to him, taking a sip from his own cup.

“Falsworth made it.” Gabe said in warning, squatting down to sit next to him.

“I don’t even care. I think I’d drink the water squeezed out of Dum Dum’s dirty socks if it was warmed up.” Bucky muttered.

Falsworth always made the worst coffee so it was almost as if it _was_ the water squeezed out of Dum Dum’s dirty socks. Where he lacked the talent for milking coffee beans to a perfection, Monty could make one of the best cups of tea out of all of them combined; he liked to boast that he could even do it with his eyes closed. That might have been true except there weren’t any tea rations this far out onto the frontline, so Bucky guessed they would never know for sure.

Sure enough, when he took a sip it was more chicory than anything, both horribly bitter and dreadfully weak at the same time. But all that probably had to do with shit army rations rather than Monty’s coffee-brewing skills.

Gabe chuckled, face tilted down over his mug trying to catch the steam.

Bucky hunched over again, settling his arms across his knees. He moved his eyes back out to stare blankly against the dense forest. The sun was setting and Bucky couldn’t remember who had first watch. He might as well volunteer; it’s not like he got much sleep anymore anyways. He could at least stay useful.

He saw Steve in the corner of his eye, under one of the makeshift lean-to’s, out of the rain. It still caught Bucky a little off guard too see him like this, all healthy and big and _Captain America_. He was still Steve though-- always would be. Steve Rogers with his big heart and an even bigger personality, stubborn as all get, without a lick of common sense to know when to back down from a fight. A fight he couldn’t win. Because no one could win this one in the end, not even Steve.

Bucky knew that; knew it when he’d first opened his draft letter. But he wouldn’t tell Steve that. He wouldn’t tell him the truth, the reality of this war. It’d break his spirit, knowing how absolutely terribly pessimistic Bucky really was. He’d probably give him some long drawn out speech about never losing hope and fighting for the greater good and making a difference. The same bullshit that those army recruiter’s did what felt like a lifetime ago. Except Steve genuinely believed it.

Bucky wouldn’t say Steve was dumb. He wouldn’t laugh in his face and call him an idiot, although if it were anyone else, if it were any other issue, he probably would have. But Steve was idealistic to a fault. And hell if it wasn’t hard to find fault in probably one of the most honorable men Bucky, and the whole goddamn world, would ever know.

He saw Steve’s get that stupid compass out again, staring at the inside cover with a look of intense adoration. The same one that all of them in the Howling Commandos had an unspoken rule not to tease him about. He deserved that. _Her_ . He deserved her. As Bucky came to understand it, she’d even liked him before he looked all-- before he became Captain America. And he had to begrudge her that. Not that he had anything to give. He didn’t have a dog in the race. Steve wasn’t _his_ . But damn it all to hell if he didn’t feel that white hot pang of jealousy when Steve would talk about her, the tips of his ears all red and and a tiny involuntary smile on his face. God, Bucky hated it and loved it all the same. Glad that Steve could be so happy but just wishing it was with _him_.

They could never, _would_ never be; not because of anything more than Bucky’s luck had just up and run out. A couple firefights ago, to be exact. What was that saying again? SOL? Bullet whizzed right by his face and he knew it: _Shit. Outta. Luck._ There was only so much a person got in life and Bucky’d spent his last. Now it was only a matter of time before his brains and brawn would fail him. The Fates or God or whatever else was really out there puppeteering all of this mess was just one muscle twitch away from snipping that life thread Bucky’d been living on. Who knew it’d be so short?

He took a sip of his now tepid coffee, staring down into its dark depths like it had any kind of consolation for him. And, of course, it did not.

 

### Presnya, Moscow, Russia - 2014

James could feel hot breath on his neck. He looked down to see a mess of blond hair, the man’s face obscured, pressed into his chest fast asleep. It was peaceful, and for a moment it almost felt real. Then the scene morphed and suddenly the soldier had a knife in his hand, his muscles tensing to keep the other from struggling. He ripped the knife’s jagged edge along his mission’s jugular, blood spraying into both their faces. The other man, who now had dark brown hair and a white scar across his left eye, gargled with an open mouth so close to the soldier’s ear that he could hear the blood pooling into the assailant’s lungs, drowning him. The soldier loosened the grip of his arms and the lifeless body collapsed away from him into a pile on the ground at his feet.

James put a hand to his chest as he startled awake, a half muffled shout catching in his throat. After one too many noise complaints, he’d learned to sleep light enough that he could wake up before his nightmares caused him to start yelling. He took a few deep breaths and looked down at himself. It comforted him to see that he wasn’t covered head to toe in blood like he had expected, just sweat. Sweat that was beginning to dry and become uncomfortable.

The soldier rolled himself out of bed, stripped off his clothes and stumbled into the bathroom to shower. This routine was quickly becoming all too habitual, not only to clean off stale sleep-sweat but also to ground himself. He didn’t bother to wait for the water to warm up, not that it ever got much hotter than lukewarm anyway, before stepping under the spray. It was icy cold against his back, helping him focus on the present, a grounding force he needed after the visions in his mind. He breathed in and out deeply through his mouth, long hair hanging wet and heavy in front of his face. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the cracked tile wall, only to find himself more troubled when he saw his metal arm. He hadn’t always had it, had he?

On principle he tried not to think about the nightmares that kept him up. But he closed his eyes anyways and thought about what had happened just _before_ the memory of the mission. There was… there was another man, with him as he slept. Small. Small in a way that was concerning to James, prompting him to protect this stranger. No, not stranger; they knew each other. He just couldn’t call to mind _how_ they knew each other. In that memory, his left arm was flesh and bone, mirroring his right. There was so much comfort and safety wrapped up in the fleeting scene, and James ached to bring back more of it. Of course the more he tried, the harder it was to recall and the harder his head began to throb, pain piercing through his vision. It kept him from putting together a coherent thought.

He turned the shower off forcefully, drying mechanically and pulling on a set of clothes from the pile he’d been collecting. He picked his way through his dingy rented apartment. It wasn’t in any kind of decent neighborhood but the landlord didn’t ask any questions and the old woman who lived next door would leave him a tin of homemade Tula Pryanik every once in a while.

James didn’t bother to lock the door behind him before walking the darkened streets of Moscow. He kept his hands in his pockets, hood pulled low over his face to obscure it from view.

The soldier felt his feet take him to his next target. He’d memorized the list— another high ranking Hydra official. He was slowly eliminating them, one by one. At first he was motivated by revenge, red hot anger that had spurred him to destroy the base in Novosibirsk. Now, he realized, it was just to keep busy, to relieve the constant ache behind his eyes as his brain continued to try and heal itself. Mindless killing, James had found, was the only thing that he could do without bringing himself pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> [HERE](http://radiantbeams.tumblr.com/post/184089492694/see-the-stars-again-22k-james-bucky) is a link to the tumblr post to reblog.


	2. Part 2 - Steven Grant Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your subscriptions and encouraging words on Part 1! I really appreciate it and I had a lot of fun writing this next part.
> 
> Yes, we're flipping to Steve's perspective, we'll be going back to Bucky's in Part 3. Let me know if you like the change and or if I should go for something different for Part 4.
> 
> Again, pay attention to the headings. Like last time, every other scene is a flashback to pre-war/WWII stucky. This chapter is about the same length (if not a bit longer) than Part 1, but the sections are a lot shorter, which is why I had to include so many.

###  Washington, District of Columbia, USA - 2014

Waking up in the future, Steve had learned to expect the unexpected. He’d always been a ‘take things as they come’ kind of guy, even before the war-- before the freeze. Most of the time this new and unexpected reality pushed his limits. Seeing Bucky again, though, that definitely took the cake.

“Tell me everything you know.” Steve demanded for what felt like the hundredth time.

Natasha didn’t look up as she cleaned her gun. “I already told you, he was mostly a ghost story if anything.” She paused finally looking up at him. Her green eyes were piercing, “There’s nothing  _ to _ know.”

Steve couldn’t believe that, but he guessed he had to. He’d chosen to trust Natasha, and that meant he that trusted her to  _ not _ keep things from him. Not things like this, anyway.

He sighed, and slumped down heavily into the kitchen chair behind him. It creaked dangerously. He rubbed at his temples and went over it all in his head again. Bucky was  _ alive _ . Bucky was alive and had no idea who he was, let alone who Steve was. He was mostly a machine now; simply a tool, a weapon used by Hydra to do their dirty work. God, this was all sorts of fucked up.

Steve felt like the situation excused strong language this time.

He turned to peer at Natasha out of the corner of his eye. There was a furrow in her brow, right between her eyes. It always appeared when she was stressed... or afraid. (Not that she’d ever admit she was.) He figured everything about this mess was hitting a bit too close to home for her, even closer than it was for Steve. She was no stranger to Hydra, as she’d also been a victim of their brainwashing, trained and used as a weapon. It took Steve’s simile of a ‘dancing monkey’ to whole new level.

“We have to find him.” He said, to no one in particular.

Nat slammed the slide into place noisily, and shoved the magazine in next. She raised a thin eyebrow at him. “I thought that’s what we were doing?”

Steve nodded.

  
  


###  Eastern Alps, near Villach, Austria - 1945

It was the dead of night, so black that not even the stars were out; the moon barely bright enough to see. Steve felt as Bucky folded himself on the ground next to him, elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Bucky at all, just rocked his own boot over to bump against his. The ground was cold and hard but he could feel the tiniest bit of heat radiating from the body beside him. It was comforting.

Bucky didn’t sleep much these days, hardly at all, really. When it was especially bad, though-- when the nightmares and anxious restlessness made it feel as though you were peeling your fingernails off one by one-- he’d come out of his tent and sit with Steve during his watch. He didn’t know if Bucky sat with anyone else, with any of the other Commando’s during their own watches, but he had the feeling he didn’t. Steve knew Bucky was… going through some things; both having to do with the war and his time in captivity. Bucky’d been in the midst of active duty far longer than Steve had. The nightmares were haunting him, memories troubling him, at times his anxiety seemed to make his whole body vibrate, but Steve, selfish as it was, felt privileged Bucky always chose him to share his tormented evenings. They didn’t talk. Not that Steve would really know what to say, anyhow; Buck was always the one who was good with words. Good with everything, pretty much. 

It was so good to have his friend back, in any capacity. Everything was different now. Steve was different, obviously, but Bucky was too, in ways that Steve hadn’t exactly expected. There was a look in his eye… Like he was just a ghost in a shell. He did well to hide it, of course, with fierce determination and that ever present Barnes’ grit.

But when he thought no one was looking, you could see it. You could see right through the blacks of his eyes and into the emptiness of his soul. The other Commando’s were worried about the enemy, logically choosing to see Bucky’s boldness and aggression as determination and anger for the opposing side. No one paid the truth much attention.

Steve, however, was always looking.

Steve tilted his head back to look at the sky. It was black and descolate. 

Nights like these were quiet in the most unnerving way. Bucky, so silent and stoic; like a man already dead. He heard Bucky let out a shaky breath, saw it fog into the air above them; it was the only sign that Bucky was still alive next to him. Steve sighed similarly and, slipping his eyes closed, he let his mind wander. He thought back to when they used to lay out on the docks during late summer nights. The clouds always looked close enough to reach out and touch, soft and fluffy like marshmallow cream, something he hadn’t had in years, more than a decade now. Like many other things in his life Steve was left with only a cruel, distant memory of the easiness of life  _ before _ .

The atmosphere this night reminded him more of a suffocating shroud-- the furthest thing from the comfort of his childhood; the comfort of his best friend. Every evening Bucky slipped further away, became another thing to add to Steve’s list of things he could only hope to keep in remembrance. Bucky’s previously vivacious personality, however pessimistic, dissipated out from him seemingly with every puff of air. Any subsequent glimmer of who Steve knew Bucky to be-- a snarky comment or jesting laugh-- seemed more hollow and fake, like the strained glimpse of a star from behind the looming fog.

Nights like these made it hard for Steve to ever believe they’d see the stars again.

  
  


###  Khamovniki, Moscow, Russia - 2014

“We must have just missed him.” Natasha said, running her fingertips along book spines on the shelf. 

“Yeah.” Steve said absentmindedly. He rounded the desk to get a better look at the papers strewn across it. They were shuffled and disorganized, blatantly riffled through. Bucky was obviously looking for something.  _ But what? _

“Fresh.” She commented, redundant. The man, a scientist known to work for Hydra, whose office they were rifling through, lay sprawled out in his desk chair. The strangulation bruises around his neck were just barely starting to appear.

Steve didn’t have anything to say in return. He knew she’d have a problem with that, even before he heard the shallow intake of breath to start her sentence.

“No objections? Really, Steve?” He looked up to see Natasha glare at him, eyes downright steely. She took in his casual stance next to the dead body, completely lacking any sympathy.

“He would have been killed anyway.” Steve mumbled, bringing his eyes back down.  _ He would have _ , he thinks fiercely; a scientist working for Hydra to create bio-weaponry? Of course he would have gotten a death sentence.

“Not like you to go excusing  _ anyone  _ for acting as judge, jury, and executioner.” Steve wasn’t facing her but he knew she had that challenging look on her face like always.

“That’s not-- It’s different.” He refused to meet her gaze.

“Is it?” She was fishing.

He finally glared hotly back at her. “ _ Yes _ . It’s  _ Bucky _ , he’s wouldn’t-- He’s not..”

“But he  _ is _ , Steve. He would and he’s different.” She took heavy measured steps toward him. “Bucky isn’t Bucky anymore. He’s the Winter Soldier.”

“No. Something changed. I saw--”

“Stop. Bucky’s not coming back and it’s time someone told you outright. Wilson won’t because he thinks you might have a psychotic break or something, but I’m not just going to sit by and watch you chase after something that doesn’t even exist.” She put a hand on his shoulder, “I care about you Steve. This needs to stop.”

He knew his friends would all have a breaking point. There was usually a limit to people’s patience; especially patience for Steve’s idealized tunnel vision. He just didn’t think Natasha’s would come so soon.

He let the papers in his hands fall back into place. “Fine.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised and disbelieving all at once.

“You can go. Back to DC. That’s fine.” This really isn’t the conversation they should be having in the middle of a murder scene.

“No-- Steve, that’s not what I meant.” Natasha said, slowly, like she was afraid she’d spook him.

He nodded. “I know what you meant.” He headed to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “I can’t give up on him, Nat. I made a promise.”

‘ _ Til the end of the line. _

  
  


###  Brittany, France - 1944

It was after a firefight. He barely even noticed he had been hurt. His only worry was the mission-- and keeping everyone else safe.

Bucky was the one to point it out.

“Steve-- You’re bleeding.” He walked over, abandoning his own task at their makeshift medic station.

Sure enough there was a hole, clean through his shoulder. Steve tucked his chin down so he could see it better. “Huh, guess I am.”

Bucky squeezed the side of Steve’s neck, a quick flex of his fingers. He caught his eye, small smile on his face. “What’re we gonna do with you, Stevie?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. He looked so much like Winifred Barnes in that moment, Steve almost had to do a double take.

And,  _ Stevie _ \-- God, it was good to have Bucky back. He never liked that nickname, not even from his mom when she was still around. But right now, from Bucky? The casual annoyance itching at the top of his spine was like a warm blanket, comforting and homely, like nothing else in the world ever could be.

“It’ll heal.” He protested as Bucky steered him over to the station, forcing him down onto an overturned log so he could get a better reach.

“Shut up, Rogers. Sit down and let me clean it. Can’t let Captain America get an infection and die. Hardly be a heroic way to go.” He shrugged.

Steve wasn’t sure he could even get an infection, probably wouldn’t leave a scar either. There was a lot to this new super soldier body that he had yet to try out. But Bucky seemed nervous and the  fidgeting, wandering hands of his on Steve’s skin seemed to be a comfort, maybe even to both of them if Steve would ever admit it.

Bucky continued talking, almost absentmindedly. “Probably got it when you threw yourself in front of that Nazi for me, you dumbass. I had it handled.” Bucky slowly peeled away the bloodied bits of Steve’s uniform, wincing outwardly as Steve hissed, failing to hide his  cringe from the stinging pain. His super soldier body didn’t seem to help any with pain from injury, that’s for sure. “It’d be helpful if that stupid shield weren’t so damn small, too. Jesus, Steve, couldn’t ya’ get some common sense to go with all these fancy muscles?” He laughed. 

Steve tried too, but it was hollow. “I’m just-- I’m just paying you back.” He half-shrugged, jerky. “You’ve gotten me out of my fair share of scrapes. Least I can finally give you a hand once in a while-- got a lot to make up for.” He tried to make it a joke, but knew the moment it was out of his mouth that it fell flat. 

Bucky paused, hands held stock still. When it was apparent he wasn’t going to continue wrapping his wound, Steve looked up, prompting him to speak.

“Stevie, I-- You know that’s not true, right?” His grey eyes looked so earnest.

“What?”

“I didn’t-- You don’t owe me one goddamn thing. Jesus, Steve, you-- you’ve done so much for me, more than you’ll ever know, more than any number of back alley brawls could ever pay back. I’m the one-- I’m the one who owes you. I owe you everything.” He said, measured and articulate like he always was.

Steve swallowed noisily. He brought his hand up to touch the one Bucky had clamped down on his good shoulder. It was shaking. He nodded, barely a jerk of his chin but Bucky copied the movement. They dropped their intense stare and went back to work.

It was a rare moment-- Bucky never got emotional; he was always too much like his father in that respect. Steve knew enough not to draw attention to it, though; from his glassy eyes to how he kept swiping at his nose.

“You’re not indestructible, pal. You’ve got to stop acting like you are.” Bucky eventually chuckled wetly, the previous tension lifted.

Steve set his jaw stubbornly. “I don’t do things any different than I did before…” he motioned to his chest, “all this.”

“I know.” Bucky said evenly. “That’s what worries me.”

  
  


###  Washington, District of Columbia, USA - 2014

Sam was a great friend. 

Sam was a great friend and Steve didn’t deserve him in the slightest. It was raining,  _ hard _ \-- miserably cold and early enough that the sun wasn’t even out. Still, though, Sam was right by his side for their morning jog. It was kind of awful, but he had to keep some level of consistency in his life or Steve truly thought he would go insane.

The search for Bucky was futile so far. After Natasha’s words he decided to come back and take a break, as much as he felt that it wasn’t needed. He was staying with Sam. His old apartment in the city had not only been compromised, but he was pretty sure it was still considered a crime scene. Natasha still vehemently refused to let Steve know where she lived.

“Alright, big guy, we gotta slow down.” Sam huffed, already a half-step behind at Steve’s elbow.

Steve nodded, cutting his pace by half. The rain felt like it was coming down harder, though he knew it was probably just because his bubble of hyper-focus had burst. He could feel Sam’s eyes on him, but he kept his own dutifully ahead. The sheets of rain made it so he could hardly see anything anyway. 

The route they had chosen was a loop and Steve managed to lose himself again by the time they made it back to Sam’s house. He didn’t stop running until he felt the tug against the collar of his shirt-- Sam giving him an amused smile. He fished his keys out of the laces of his sneakers and let himself in ahead of Steve.

His wet t-shirt dropped onto the floor with a loud  _ splat _ as he toed off his shoes. Sam tossed him a kitchen towel of questionably cleanliness, he ran it over his hair anyway.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Sam asked, popping open the lid of the clothes dryer with a tinny squeak.

Steve shook his head. “I’ve got to get back out there soon.”

“I’ll come with you.” Sam said with his usual immediacy.

Steve shook his head again. “Sam, you shouldn’t. It’s-- it’s dangerous, and--”

“You’re right, it is dangerous.” He interrupted forcefully. “It’s especially dangerous for you, because, like it or not, Steve, you’ve been compromised-- emotionally. Someone needs to watch out for you, have your back.”

He was right, of course he was.

“You don’t have to do everything on your own, Rogers. Especially this.” Sam squeezed his shoulder. When’d he come to stand so close?

He sighed, whole body visibly slumping. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He stepped back, giving him a charming smile, the previously charged air forgotten. “Where to next?”

“Uhm--” Steve reeled, bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “The freshest rumor I’ve heard is in Kyiv, but even that is a few days old, so he could be anywhere.”

“Kyiv is a start.” Sam shrugged.

_ It’s been nothing but  _ starts _ and anything but real  _ substance _. _ Steve wanted to retort, but he held his tongue. Bucky would have boxed his ears for being so pessimistic. Bucky would have done a lot of things-- but he wasn’t here, was he?

  
  


###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 1938

“Put on your dancing shoes, Stevie! We’re goin’ out!” Bucky exclaimed as he walked in the front door. 

His rucksack  was slung over his shoulder, along with his shirt. He grabbed a glass with his free hand and filled it with water from the tap. It was late August but still definitely summertime and Bucky’s dark curls were sweaty and clinging to his forehead. He looked stunning, as far as Steve was concerned, even if a little worse for wear with the dark bags under his eyes and perpetual exhausted slump in his shoulders. His fingers got that little twitch to begin drawing him.

“I dunno, Buck. I’m not really feeling like going out.” Steve mumbled, dropping his eyes back down to his sketch. It was dark and sad, a practiced still-life of the neighbor’s herb garden that looked more scorched and wilted than vibrant and full of life as he drug the charcoal across the page. 

Steve hated to quell Bucky’s spirit but he was tired and still worn out from an asthma attack the other day. The lingering summer heat wasn’t helping things, either.

Well, it wasn’t helping anything  _ Steve _ related. Bucky, on the other hand...

“Aw, c’mon, you’re no fun. Besides, I promised a couple of girls we’d show ‘em a good time.” Bucky wagged his eyebrows and took another swig of water. “This one-- Janice-- seemed real keen on meeting you.” He grinned.

Steve shook his head quickly, mostly to himself. Mostly to rid himself of any thought of  _ Bucky _ with a girl out on the town.

Steve groaned. He might was well give up on his drawing, it was shit and he wasn’t going to get anything done with Bucky breathing down his neck. Steve sat up sharply, tossing his notebook away. He shot Bucky a glare from across the room. “Bucky… What’d you tell her?”

His eyebrows shot up, the picture of false innocence. “What d’ya mean ‘what’d I tell her?’ I didn’t tell her anything,” Bucky insisted, , “...just how funny and talented you are, quick as a whip,  _ handsome _ \--”

“Bucky!” Steve groaned again, throwing his hands up. “You can’t  _ do _ that.”

“Well, why the hell not? It’s the truth!” God-- Bucky could be so stubborn sometimes.

“Be--Because! Because, I’m not! And I’m going to show up tonight and she’ll be disappointed and I’ll be humiliated.”

“Bull _ shit _ you’re not, Rogers! You’re a damn catch and this gal is lucky I’m introducin’ you two.”

Steve hung his head in his hands. His good ear was stopped up from allergies but he feel, better than hear, when Bucky dropped his things into the floor and stomped over to the couch, his boots making harsh vibrations against the worn wooden planks. Steve looked up at him from between his splayed fingers. Bucky reached out and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. He ducked his head down so Steve could better read his lips.

“C’mon, Stevie, give her a chance. Maybe she’s got a thing for scrawny pale asthmatics who’ve been knockin’ on death’s door.” He grinned, lopsided and charming like only Bucky could. “Lord knows I do.” He winked. 

For a moment-- and there  _ was _ a moment— they had just looked at each other. Bucky’s half-smile slowly fell off his face and Steve couldn’t catch his breath. But then Bucky cut his eyes down to the left, gave his shoulder one last squeeze and stepped away.

  
  


###  Kyiv, Ukraine - 2014

“You don’t happen to speak any Ukranian do you?” Steve heard Sam ask him while he crouched down in the kitchen, rifling through Bucky’s cabinets. There were a lot of empty bottles of Vodka.

“Huh?” He popped his head up to give him a questioning look.

Sam pointed out the open door. There was a woman trying to peer over at them, a pull car full of groceries held loosely in her hand. She looked ancient and hunched over but her eyes were alert.

“ ти поліція? ” She rasped harshly.  _ Are you police? _

The words were obviously accusatory, but they made no sense. Bucky was the one, of the two of them, who was good with languages.

“Do you know the man who lives here?” Steve asked.

“ ти поліція? ” She insisted, beginning to look nervous.  _ Are you police? _

“I feel like Stark would have come up with a way to fix this problem by now.” Sam muttered under his breath, already going back to sorting through the magazines Bucky’s coffee table.

Pulling out his phone, Steve took a step forward. The woman shrunk back and glanced behind her down the hall.

Admittedly, Steve was still trying to get the hang of modern technology even though he’d been de-thawed for a while now. He flipped through his pictures easily enough and pulled up the only one he had of Bucky in this century. It was grainy and his face was partially obscured in shadow. But he was hardly recognizable from any of the others he had: the ones from his service record.

He held up the screen for her to see. “This man. Do you recognize him? He lives here?”

“ Я не хочу ніяких проблем. ” She said.  _ I don’t want any trouble. _

Steve sighed, ready to accept defeat and just leave, before Sam stepped past him, clipping his shoulder forcefully, obviously exasperated. He snatched Steve’s phone out of his hand and typed away on it. They passed it back and forth for a bit until the woman nodded and left to enter her own apartment.

“He goes by ‘James’ now. She hasn’t seen him in a few days and she says he’s very polite and always helps her carry the groceries home from the market. He likes bananas and speaks very good Ukrainian. She was surprised he  _ wasn’t _ Ukrainian, I think.” Sam said, tossing him back the phone.

“Bananas?” Steve asked incredulously.

He shrugged. “I asked her what he was like she seemed to think that bananas was important.”

“That’s strange.” They didn’t have much of anything in the thirties, especially fruit. Steve hadn’t even eaten a banana until after the thaw. He guessed he could see the appeal to him. He brought his arms around his chest, hugging himself. “She said he hasn’t seen him?”

“I may not really know Bucky from Adam, but my guess is it was probably right around the time you caught word he was here. That seems his style.”

That  _ did _ seem to be Bucky’s style: leaving a trail for Steve to get  _ just _ close enough before ghosting again. It’d happened now half a dozen times, leading Steve— and whomever comprised his search party at that moment— on wild goose chases all over not only eastern europe, but sometimes even the farthest corners of the world.

He spied the corner of a familiar red box under the couch. Reaching down to grab it, Steve heard Sam shut Bucky’s front door. Just as he thought, it was a box of Lucky Strikes, crumpled and half empty. Steve fiddled with it in his hands for a minute, spinning it this way and that. He pulled one out and stared down at it before bringing it to his lips and lighting it. He stared at the chipped engraving on the lighter:

_ Sgt. J. B. Barnes _

When Steve had woken up, Fury had told him to go over to the Smithsonian and collect some of his things. He tried to leave most of it behind for the museum, having been assured that he could visit any of it anytime and if he really wanted-- claim at a later date. In the end he was guilted by the docent’s emphatic speech about his role in shaping American history and giving the people a glimpse into his life and how he represented hope and perseverance. He managed to claim a couple of sketchbooks, his father’s wristwatch, and Bucky’s lighter. It wasn’t even on display. He just pocketed it-- didn’t want to have to explain himself or his reasons to the ever-invasive historians who hovered around him. Every time he looked at it, flipped it open and watched the flame dance, ran his thumb over the dent in the side where Bucky had dropped it and nearly set the whole camp on fire, Steve knew he had made the right decision to keep it. 

“Captain America smokes? What will the people say?” Sam gasped, starting Steve out of his thoughts.

He chuckled and fell back onto the overstuffed lounge chair. It smelled kind of off, and the springs squeaked when shifted to bing his feet up onto the coffee table.

“Steve Rogers smokes. Captain America is a proud member of the American Cancer Society.” He held out the pack. “You want one?”

Sam grinned, “I feel like this is a test.” Steve just raised an eyebrow. “Nah, I’m okay.”

“Good answer. Smoking kills.” Steve replied after another inhale.

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Everybody smoked during the war. It never did anything for me because of the serum,” he shrugged. “It's mostly just a habit.”

“A habit? That’s what they all say!” Sam laughed.

“I wonder if Bucky remembers.” He watched as the cigarette burned down between his fingers. 

“Maybe. But if it was just a habit for him as well-- Habits are fickle things.” Sam said as he took a seat on the couch. “They can stick with you for a long time, I’d believe even through the type of brainwashing Bucky went through.”

“You really think so?” Steve took another pull. “Natasha says you shouldn’t give me false hope.”

“Do you think he’ll come back here?” Sam asked after a moment.

Steve shook his head, leaning forward to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray. “No, he’s gone.” He nodded his head to the kitchen counter. “Look at those.” There was a bunch of bananas in a bowl, brown and rotten. “Bucky’d never let food go bad.”


	3. Part 3 - James Buchanan Barnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh so I know, /I/ /know/, this is late I really am the worst I'm so sorry. But boy oh boy do I have a good one for ya. I honestly cried while writing a couple of these scenes.
> 
> We've got a flashback now that is not to WWII so that's exciting, and we get to see more of Steve being a bumbling idiot and that is always a good time. LOL Anyway thank's for being patient and thank's for reading!

### Ventura, California, USA - 2014

James sat facing the waves. It was late, and dark, and he could barely make out the crests as he dug his toes into the cool sand. He had taken off his boots when he got there, driving down the coast in a stolen nondescript sedan. The waves were loud-- one right after the other-- breaking short and choppy up against the shore. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself and propped his arms up on his knees. The wind coming off the ocean stung with salty, wet droplets; there was a storm brewing.

Many of the memories he recovered featured another man named Steve. One of the more recent ones had been Steve talking about how much he wanted to go to California. James had no idea if Steve had ever actually made it out here, but it seemed unlikely. Those memories were always tainted with an overwhelming feeling of stress, hunger, and desperation.

There were plenty of other things James was finally beginning to recall, enough so that he was able to put together an only slightly confusing timeline for his life up until this point. Confusing because James seemed to have experienced many more years of life than what he would have considered to be average.

His contemplations were interrupted when a couple of students-- drunk, sloppy, and loud-- come up over the dune behind him. There’ve been a few to pass by James since he parked himself on the shore at dusk. They tripped over their own clumsy feet, and then James himself, unsteady on the sinking sand.

“Oh, sorry, bro.” One said, guitar slung across his back.

James waved away his apology. He lit the cigarette he had perched behind his ear and took a drag.

A girl in the group paused, looking back at James curiously. She wore a tattered sweater over a string bikini and cut-off shorts showcasing her long tan legs. The wind tousled her hair, blowing it into her face. She looked cold. James glanced at her for only a moment before focusing on the waves again.

“You wanna join us?” It took James a minute to even realize she was speaking to him.

“What?” He heard her fine, but he was confused.

“I’m Cassie.” She held out her hand, the soldier passed the cigarette to his left and shook hers. “C’mon, join us. Anyone’s welcome, and you look like you shouldn’t be alone right now.” She frowned sympathetically.

“James.” He said, dusting off the back of his jeans as he stood up. He didn’t know why he followed her.

The bonfire they arrived at had been burning for a while. James noticed it when he first got there. He had watched as a young man in a striped sweater put too much lighter fluid on it and almost burned off his eyebrows a few hours ago. There was a trash bag already half full of solo cups and beer cans. A bag of chips was getting passed around too.

“Everyone, this is James. James, this is everyone.” Cassie said, taking a seat next to another girl already there. They kissed and James looked away 

It felt odd to be surrounded by people, exposing and intimate in a way James wasn’t used to. He didn’t dislike it.

“We’re all on winter break from UCLA. Are you in school, James?” Eoghan asked, he was the one with the guitar, the one who tripped over James.

He shook his head. “Never finished.” He didn’t know how he knew that that was true. A lot of his time since the mission in DC had been devoted to coming up with believable back-stories, cover identities that wouldn’t raise questions. But he knew this one wasn’t a lie.

They didn’t press any further, and for that, he was grateful.

When it got closer to midnight, the moon directly overhead, they passed around a bowl. After a few hits James, now loose and peaceful, had a curious thought.

It was, unsurprisingly, another memory about Steve. Huddled by an open window, a poorly rolled joint between their fingers, muddled intuition and the wet hot press of lips against his own. There was a flush of embarrassment-- a foggy haze between them as they shotgunned hit after hit.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the memory left him. He sighed and lay down on his back next to the crackling fire. His head still throbbed, though maybe not as painfully as it had before. The taste of weed was sour on his tongue so he wrestled another cigarette from his back pocket. He heard the tide retreating and stared up at the moon. It was bright and illuminating against the pressing clouds. This close to the ground he couldn’t feel the wind blowing anymore, but he could see the rolling thunderheads creep closer to the shore. They obscured any presence of the stars. James sighed and closed his eyes.

 

### Odesa, Ukraine - 2009

The soldier breathed out steadily-- his eye up against the scope of the rifle. He’d set up the ambush before the sun was up that morning. Now, it was high in the sky and he was sweating through his kevlar. His handler was assured he could manage the hit alone, so there was no one else up there on the ridge with him to break the overwhelming silence. The soldier preferred it like this.

Sweat dripped cross his eyelashes and he blinked it away. Their intel said the target would be brought through this stretch of highway any moment now. His orders were to execute the target and transport crew. Standard scorched earth protocol. There was a faint hum of an engine and the soldier tensed his muscles-- relaxing them one by one so he could make a steady shot. A black town car came around the bend in the road and he counted in his head as he brought his finger to the trigger.

A shot rang out and the car lost control as the driver slumped over dead. The soldier cocked the rifle to dispense the casing, finding the trigger again with a deft hand. The target and the other agent stumbled out of the car. Only two agents for transport; that was curious to the soldier. He fired again, missing as the agent pulled the target just out of the way behind herself. She had her sidearm out and glanced around wildly to figure out where the enemy was. The reverberating echo of the cavernous valley worked in the soldier’s favor, obscuring the source of each noisy blast of the rifle. It was exactly why he had chosen this spot.

After dispensing the shell, he lined up the shot. He had to take out the target first, as much as he’d have liked to get both of the agents out of the way-- a third shot risked revealing his location. The target was ducked down behind her still. The soldier went for the head shot, right through the agent’s hip. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he ducked out of the way. She fired at him, messy and inaccurate because of her wound. The soldier reasoned that she would bleed out; his job was done. He packed up-- quickly policing his brass-- and radioed in that it was taken care of and he was moving onto the rendezvous point.

 

### Ventura, California, USA - 2014

Cassie and her girlfriend-- _we don’t like labels, James--_ generously offered their spare room for James to crash in when he mentioned he had been sleeping in his car. He didn’t want to impose, but a shower did sound pretty good. It turned out that their spare room was completely full of Christmas decorations but James said he was fine with the couch. Hell, just sleeping indoors was an improvement; anything was better than huddling himself in the backseat of his car.

He woke up at dawn, the early morning light just barely streaming through the living room curtains. The vague tendrils of a nightmare tugged on his subconscious as he laced up his boots, unsettled. The rest of his clothes were in their washing machine; Rebecca insisted she start a load for him.

After a quick workout, James grabbed his keys and went to the grocery store. They were just opening when he arrived, a stock boy bobbed his head along to the music in his headphones while he worked. James wondered what he was listening to. He grabbed a few things to make breakfast and left, all while keeping his head down. Now that his hair was clean from the shower the previous night, it fell in less of a curtain around his face and more just a puffy halo; it was annoying.

James had found that he liked cooking. Not only that but he was _good_ at it. At first, it was hard to even eat something and keep it down. He did some research and figured it was from malnourishment. As he recovered more memories, that theory was becoming confirmed. It’d probably been over half a century since he’d gotten nutrients without a feeding tube. Now that he had the freedom to do-- and eat-- whatever he wanted, James had dove head first.

He kept the window open in the kitchen; a cigarette hung from his other hand while he scrambled eggs with his left. He still wore a glove at all times, and was careful the night before not to let his hosts see his metal arm.

He heard Rebecca pad into the room-- he knew it was her because she had been wearing a toe ring and it clacked against the tile floor when she walked.

“James? What’s all this? You didn’t have to make breakfast! Did you go to the store?” She peered into one of the paper bags on the counter.

“There’s coffee. You were out of milk also, so I bought some.” He pointed with his elbow toward the coffee pot, three mugs lined up in front of it.

“I-- James, you really shouldn’t have.” For some reason being called James was beginning to grate on him. It didn’t feel _right_.

“I should pay you back for letting me stay here last night.” He said, placating.

“No, god, no. We didn’t even have a room to put you up in, I still feel so bad about that.” She finished pouring herself a cup of coffee and perched herself on one of the stools up against the counter.

“Don’t worry about that. You’ve both been very generous.” He reached into the fridge and took out a carton. “Would you like some juice?”

He glanced up at her when he got no response. She was staring at him curiously, but without judgement, so James stayed relaxed.

“You’re very chipper this morning.” She said, skeptically. “A lot more talkative, compared to last night.”

James looked down, solemn. “It comes and goes.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Last night… I was just a homeless man on the beach.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

He chuckled. “A homeless man with a friend.”

She laughed along with him. “That you are.”

It felt so easy, natural, being like this this morning. James didn’t know where it was coming from. They sat around the tiny dinette table and Rebecca said not to wait for Cassie-- she wouldn’t be up for hours. It was nice to just be around someone, sit and talk and forget about all the confusing questions that usually plagued his mind.

“I had a sister named Rebecca.” It was out of his mouth before he could even think about it. As what was becoming the usual, he had a gut feeling this fact was true, but nothing else to really back it up.

“Were you two close?” This Rebecca asked.

James thought about it, glaring at the table like it would help him recall anything. It didn’t. And, like always, he started to feel the throb of a headache at the base of his skull.

He shrugged.

Rebecca took a long sip of her coffee.

“I know it’s not my place to ask, and feel free to tell me to fuck off, but… Why do you always wear that glove?” She asked after a quiet pause.

James flexed his left arm out in front of him. He knew, now, what it was, what it was used for, even a rough estimate of when he got it.

“I… I was in the army. There was an accident. It’s not-- it doesn’t look good.” That much was true. His arm was a useful tool, but it carried the weight of a lot of guilt and shame for James.

“I’m sorry.” She said simply. He was grateful she left it at that.

They sat in silence for a while longer, Rebecca reading the paper and James staring blankly out the window.

“I need to go.” He said, standing abruptly. The chair he was sitting on grated against the tile, a loud screech punctuating his statement.

“Oh-- James, you don’t have to. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” He looked at her curiously, already having forgotten their previous conversation.

“What? No. I just-- It’s time for me to move on.” He looked down and fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

“Okay… if you’re sure.” She got up. “I’ll go get your things from the dryer.”

He’d already folded his bedroll and cleaned up after himself in the kitchen. There was nothing left for James to do but loiter awkwardly by the front door.

Soon enough, Rebecca came back with a stack of clothes, neatly folded. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, James.” She said softly and handed them over. “Our door is always open if you ever find yourself back in California.”

James doubted he would. But he thanked her anyway. The remnants of the rainstorm last night were still visible in the front yard, but the sun was shining bright.

After he put his things away in the trunk he settled into the driver’s seat and sighed. There was a pair of sunglasses wedged into the visor. He pulled them on and started the car. For once, James knew exactly where he was headed next.

 

### Eastern Alps, Austria - 1945

Why the _fuck_ did Steve have to do this mission right _now_ ? Bucky knew why, of course. He knew that they’d never get a chance like this to capture Zola again. He knew they had to act fast. He knew this was the _right thing_ to do. But goddamnit there was snow on the ground and if Bucky would be honest with himself he’d admit that facing Zola again, even from a position of power like this, scared the shit out of him.

It was the night before they were going to make their honestly bone-headed attempt at extraction-- off a moving train. What the _fuck,_ Steve? No. Not the time to get panic-y about it, Barnes. He rolled over on his bedroll, making a lame attempt at getting comfortable on the frozen ground.

“ _Steve._ ” He whispered. No response.

“ _Stevie._ ” He tried again. No response. Steve seemed suspiciously still-- like someone who was _pretending_ to be asleep.

“Steven.” He said, a bit louder this time. To his surprise, Steve rolled over swiftly, pinning him with a tired glare, his hand tucked up under his head.

“ _What?_ Bucky, what?” He said, exasperated.

“Hey.”

Steve groaned and rolled over onto his back. “Go to sleep, Bucky. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“I’m cold.” When was he not in this godforsaken war, honestly?

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.” Oh, little Stevie was _cranky_ tonight.

“Listen up you sentient space heater, I spent how many winters with your icicles for toes pressed up against me, least you could do is return the favor.” Bucky grumbled, rolling back over onto his back and crossing his arms.

He-- if he was _honest_ he really just needed a little bit of homely comfort. _This_ wasn’t really something they ever talked about, not so explicitly.

He wasn’t really expecting it when Steve’s arm wound around his waist, the top of his head bumping up against Bucky’s elbow. He sighed, letting go of whatever faux-stubborn insistence that he was still mad, and rubbed his hand up and down Steve’s broad back. Bucky was glad they could have this, keep this, even with all of the changes and horrors going on. Steve let out a breath, giving Bucky’s collar bone a quick kiss before pillowing his head against his chest.

Before he could even really think to stop himself, Bucky brought his hand to cup Steve’s jaw. He rubbed his thumb tenderly over the dark bags under his eye. The wispy baby hairs at the back of his neck tickled his fingers. Steve gently pulled him closer, curling up smaller so that he could fit up against Bucky like he used to. It was a little awkward and _god_ he was heavy now, but comforting nonetheless.

Bucky closed his eyes, feeling tears pool at the corners of them. He willed his hands not to shake. This was stupid. He shouldn’t be _crying_. Barnes men didn’t cry. It was just-- he was just-- so overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and tired and sad and all these emotions that he had so fiercely stopped himself from feeling for so long now.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, concerned. Because of course. He could always read Bucky like a book.

Steve lifted his head up to look at him. Bucky turned his face away. He made a concerned little noise in the back of his throat and gripped Bucky’s jaw, forcing them to be face to face. Bucky reluctantly opened his eyes, a couple shameful tears gliding down his face. He was about to wipe them away, break Steve’s hold and make a half hearted joke that he was fine. But then Steve, his horribly sincere eyes boring into Bucky’s own, quietly lent down and kissed the salty tracks on his cheeks, one side and then the other. Then he pulled back, barely enough, and carefully analyzed Bucky’s expression. And Bucky thought: _this is it_.

But then-- but then Steve just continued to stare. He leaned his weight to one side-- they were pressed up close enough that Bucky could feel every move of his body-- and ran a hand through Bucky’s hair, cradling the back of his head. Jesus, was it hot in here? Bucky was feeling a little hot. He audibly swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Steve’s eyes tracked the movement.

And then Steve said the three most hurtful and painful words in the English language.

“I love you.” His breath ghosted across Bucky’s face, barely a whisper. Then Steve, dumb stupid endearingly awkward Steve, _kept talking_. “Buck… I-- I know, it’s always been-- with us, and how it’s supposed to be, and I-- it just--.”

Bucky took pity on him, smiling sadly. “I know.” He sighed, painful and forlorn, eyes falling down and away. “I know. It’s okay. That’s not how man’s meant to live, never has been. I love you, too. But I know.”

Steve made a frustrated noise, his hand on Bucky’s jaw again to look him in the eye. Steve always liked eye contact, being seen. Although now, Bucky guessed, it was just a residual habit from his deaf days.

“No-- you don’t get it I’m--.” Steve started, but Bucky had had enough.

“What? What don’t I get, Steve? You love me. I love you. Nothing can ever happen. That’s the way it is, how it’s always been. I’ve known and accepted it ages ago. Please, _please_ , don’t tell me you’re just now figuring that out.” Bucky tried to pull away but goddamnit Steve was strong now and even though he never used excessive force, and especially never with Bucky, when he wanted to hold on, he could.

“No! Jeez, Buck, could you just-- could you just let me talk for a minute.” Steve sat up, tugging at his hair the way he always did when he was anxious.

Bucky shut up at that. When they were kids, Steve had a stutter. He’d grown out of it soon enough but when he was distressed or really emotional it would creep up again. Bucky had gotten used to just waiting patiently for him to collect his thoughts and get them out.

They sat quietly for a minute, the wind howling outside the tent, banging on its sides. Without Steve close again, Bucky was freezing. He pulled his blanket tighter around himself and sat up, mirroring Steve’s posture. He wanted to reach out, touch and caress and sooth the only way he knew how. But Steve had never been as tactile as he was, and it wouldn’t be helpful for him now.

Steve opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally spoke.

“I’ve always loved you, Bucky. I think I’ve always loved you _that way_ , too. And-- I-- If things were different… I always thought… I always wanted… but then now there’s Peggy and--” He rubbed his temples, frustrated.

“Jesus, Stevie, all this thinkin’ it’s a wonder you haven’t pulled a muscle yet.” Bucky laughed, trying so desperately to rid the situation of tension.

His attempts earned him a glare. “Bucky. Please.”

He sighed, pulling Steve’s hands into his lap, fiddling with his fingers, rubbing a calloused thumb over his palm. “‘Til the end of the line. That’s what we’ve always said, and we’ve always known what it meant. We don’t have to talk about these things You hate it because you’re goddamn awful at it.” Steve cracked a smile at that. “And I hate it because it doesn’t change anything. And Peggy?”

He tried to interrupt him. “Bucky, no, you have to understand it’s--”

“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, Steven Grant Rogers.” And damn it all to hell, Bucky was crying again. “You love that girl and she loves you and I am so, _so_ happy for you.”

Shit, now they were both crying. Bucky grasped Steve’s hand in both his own as tightly as he could, kissing the tip of his fingers lightly.

He took a second to compose himself before continuing. “She’s everything I ever wanted for you. If I couldn’t-- if we couldn’t-- well then I’d want a gal like her treatin’ you right.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve whispered after a pause.

“What the hell do you have to be sorry for?” He asked.

“Just-- I don’t know-- all this.”

“It’s okay.” Steve stared at him, incredulous. “Well, it will be.”

He nodded.

“Don’t fuck it up, okay?” Bucky asked, because he had to. He wasn’t coming home from this war and he had to make sure Steve could be okay. When his face pinched up in confusion, Bucky clarified. “With Peggy, don’t fuck it up.”

He laughed, just a puff of air from his lungs. It was so cold in the tent it steamed out in front of him. “I won’t, I promise.”

“You will.” Bucky said, moving to lie back down again, Steve stretching out next to, but mostly on top of, him. “But she’ll love you anyway.”

He looked down at the top of Steve’s head and smoothed down his hair. He kissed it one last time before closing his eyes and finally falling asleep.

 

### Washington, District of Columbia, USA - 2015

Not many people went to the Smithsonian on New Year’s Day, James discovered. He still wore a cap pulled low over his face and avoided security cameras. He wandered a little aimlessly through the _Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage_ exhibit. James thought that was a little wordy, to be honest. He took in the “artifacts” and read a few of the informational plaques. It was when he got the the _Howling Commandos_ section that he took pause. Because that— that was his face up there. He had thought… he had expected, of course, finally put two and two together, but now— now everything was confirmed and James didn’t quite know what to do about it.

 

_“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.”_

 

James had to get out of there. His head was beginning to throb, his chest was tight, and he felt hot all over. He made it as far as the restroom. It was thankfully empty and he ripped off his cap and splashed water onto his face. It didn’t seem to help and he gripped his hair tightly with his wet hand, tugging at the strands until it hurt— enough to distract from what felt like his brain being set on fire. He couldn’t— he didn’t _want_ to remember, not if it was going to hurt this much. He tugged frantically at the collar of his shirt, it was already drenched in sweat, stained darker all around his chest. His eyes were wild when he looked at himself in the mirror.

 

_James Buchanan Barnes_

 

 _James_ , that’s who he was— not Bucky. Bucky was a war hero, a relic of the past. Bucky had _died_.

But then, then he _remembered_. He remembered how Steve pretended to hate being called Stevie. He remembered how his hands looked when he was working on a new sketch, fingers stained with charcoal. He remembered long hard days working at his uncle’s mechanic shop collecting just enough to help out where his deadbeat father never could. He remembered getting his draft letter, hiding it away before Steve got home from the doctor’s; for some reason Steve couldn’t know he was being forced. He remembered how his mother smelled like potpourri and Pond's. He remembered his little sister’s bony arms around his neck. He remembered loving Steve Rogers everything he had and he remembered how that had never been enough.

He remembered the war, the cold and the looming anxiety, Zola and being tortured-- experimented on the first time, not to mention the second, how painful it was. He remembered lying there in the snow, his left arm mangled and bleeding out right there, but all he could think of was Steve’s words.

 

 _I love you_.

 

God they were so simple-- practically meaningless, trite in some respects. But they really hadn’t held any more meaning then they had then. His breath coming out in ragged gasps, staring up at the delicate snow flurries falling all around him, in so much pain all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. _I love you,_ had never meant more to him than right then.

James was startled out of the flashback when a loud pop and a hiss echoed off the tile of the restroom. He looked down to see the porcelain sink pulling away from the wall, the sides of it cracked under his grip. He immediately let go and fell back against the one of the stall doors.

He had only just gotten used to the idea that he was an assassin; that he had killed _all those people_ . James could recover from that, maybe. There were plenty of soldiers who killed and went back to civilian life and lived normal lives, that much James knew. But this? This was too much. It didn’t make any _sense_ and yet, it filled in all the gaps and questions he’d been posing for months. Bucky was a normal guy with a normal family and a normal best friend. James was-- James felt anything but normal. He was always looking over his shoulder, marking exits and coming up with efficient strategies of how to kill anyone and everyone he came in contact with, even people he didn’t want to kill, even people he _liked_. That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t Bucky.

But if he wasn’t Bucky, and he wasn’t Soldat, who was he?

James didn’t know now if coming here was such a good idea.


	4. Part 4 - Steven Grant Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, this is over a month late, I'm aware. I really don't have much to say other than I'm sorry, thank you for reading, and I'm determined to finish this even if it's the last thing I do.
> 
> Trigger warnings in this chapter for: internalized homophobia, major character death, anxiety and PTSD

###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2015

He should ask Sam. Sam would be straight with him about it. Ha. The irony.

He picked up his phone and dialed before he could think himself out of it.

“How do you think the general public would respond if Captain America were gay?” Steve asked immediately, as casually as he could. His heart thumped in his chest in that concerning way he hadn’t felt since before the serum.

Sam left a moment of charged silence on the other end.

“Well… Is he?” He finally answered. Steve opened his mouth to reply but Sam interrupted him. “Wait-- Wait… I don’t think talking about this in the third person is very healthy. So: Are you?”

Steve chuckled at that.  _ Sam, your therapist is showing. _ But then he really thought about it and frowned, because, honestly, he couldn’t say.

“I-- I don’t know.”

“Then I guess it doesn’t matter.” He could almost hear Sam shrug.

“But what if I am?” Steve sighed and pressed his free hand to his forehead. He leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “What if I think about it and, I don’t know, read a bunch of books, start journaling, I don’t know. What if I think about it and I come to the conclusion that I am. What then?”

“Well I can’t speak for everybody, buddy, but I know I’d be okay with it.” And really, isn’t that just exactly what Steve needed to hear. If there was any more cementing that needed to be done to confirm that Steve one hundred percent did not deserve him, this would definitely do it.

He let out a heavy breath. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. So… Is this your way of coming out? Because, I love you, and I thank you for trusting me, but as your best friend, I’d expected more than a phone call.”

Best friend? “Expected?” Steve mused out loud.

Sam let out a frustrated noise. “You know what I meant.”

He didn’t. “I don’t.”

“God-- Nevermind! You’re not a flamer if that’s what you’re worried about!”

“I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say.” Steve had been trying desperately to keep up with all the recent slang. Learning what was appropriate and not anymore was a very nuanced subject, he’d found.

He heard a thunk that was unmistakably Sam’s head against a wall. “This is going off the rails.”

Steve stayed silent, frowning and picking at the dirt under his fingernails.

“Do you-- Are you-- What’s brought this on?” Sam asked.

“What?”

“What made you start thinking about this? Questioning?” 

The obvious answer of  _ Bucky _ hung in the air before he voiced it.

“Was it--  _ like that _ with you guys back then? I thought Peggy was your sweetheart.” Sam said and Steve realized this was a bad idea. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to have to explain it. He wanted people to just  _ know _ .

“No… No it was never-- well kind of. I mean, we, um, talked about it but... Yeah. Peggy was my sweetheart and being gay was wrong and I think-- I think Bucky knew he was about to die. I don’t know how but… He knew.” Steve rubbed his forehead anxiously again.

“Being gay isn’t wrong, Steve. It never has been, even if some other people said otherwise for a while.” Sam vehemently insisted.

“Yeah, Sam, I know.” He didn’t, not really. He knew but he didn’t really believe it. It just sounded like the thing to say right then.

“Maybe you’re bisexual.” Sam said, so plainly and obviously, Steve was caught off guard.

He paused for a moment. “Does it matter?” He asked. Because it really didn’t feel like any of it mattered. Bucky was lost in the wind and Peggy was halfway gone herself and Steve knew he wasn’t ready to get back out there, no matter how hard Natasha tried.

“Most people seem to think it does. Like-- labeling your identity can be really freeing for a lot of people, it can connect you with a community and help you realize you’re not alone.” Sam needed to take fewer of those CEU’s.

“I’ve read the books, Sam.” He shouldn’t be so rude. Sam was only trying to help.

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, I don’t-- I shouldn’t have called.” There wasn’t anything Sam could say that’d be an answer for him. He knew that, and it wasn’t fair to put Sam in this position. He started to pull his phone away to hang up.

“No, wait! Do you want to come out? I’m sure there’s some sort of Avengers PR person. We could talk to them about it. You know everybody-- everybody who matters, would be on your side.”

“I guess.. I don’t know.” He said hesitantly, Sam just barreled right on over him.   
  


“Have you told Peggy? Talked to her about it?” And wasn’t that the kicker.

“Last time I went to visit, she… She wasn’t very lucid. It didn’t feel like the time. I don’t--” His chest clenched again and there was the tell-tale prickling behind his eyes. It was so hard to see her like that, a pressing reminder of all that he had lost.

“I think, if you talked to her, you’d feel better. I think you know that too. But you’re talking to me now because it’s easier and you’re cowardly.”

“I’m what?!” Steve demanded, rising from his chair like that’d even do anything. How could Sam say that? That had never--  _ never _ been an accusation against him. Bull-headed, stubborn, and carelessly reckless, but never  _ cowardly _ .

Sam, of course, was always the one to stand up against him when he needed it. “You know I’m right, Rogers. Don’t lie to me.”

_ Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, Steven Grant Rogers. _ Bucky’s words rattled around in his head. He slumped back down in his chair, defeated. Sam was right.

“Fine. Fine, I-- I’ll talk to her.” He sighed.

“Good.” They both paused with finality. “And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, and I’m proud of you. Always.” Sam said, and he could hear the heartbreaking sincerity in his voice.

Steve said something, probably a goodbye or a thanks or an absent-minded ‘I love you, too’ but he couldn’t remember. Could barely even think as he started to cry, his tears dripping onto the floor between his bare feet.

 

###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 1936

It was an unusually cold day in late April when it happened. Or maybe, Steve had just thought it was unusually cold in his fog of mourning and grief. Sarah had taken a turn for the worst a week or so ago, coughing up blood and too weak to leave her bed. Steve had insisted someone stay with her and be by her side at all times. He’d taken a job illustrating at a local newspaper to pay for at least some of her medical bills. Their neighbor, Delores, was generous enough to take on the duty when he had to go to work. Delores read aloud to Sarah all day, wiped the sweat from her brow, encouraged her to eat a little something, all the things Steve wished he could stay home and do. Delores was a saint.

It was one of Steve’s rare days off. As painful as it was to see her like this, he was grateful to see to her care himself, for once. What the doctors explained as ‘the surge’ had, at the time, seemed like a fortuitous blessing. And it was a blessing, to spend time with his mother in her final moments while she was lucid and happy. But it made the end that much more painful.

He’d helped her to sit in the rocking chair in the living room, shuffling along the cold floor, supporting most if not all of her weight. She was content to just sit in the sun streaming in from the window, looking down at the passersby down on the street. Steve was content to just sit and watch her, gently holding her hand. 

He had to step out for only a moment. He wanted to get some flowers from the vendor down the street, daisies wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. Well, it had  _ supposed _ to only been for a moment but Mr. Margolis had stopped him to talk and it had been closer to an hour before he made it back home.

When he walked into their drafty old apartment nothing seemed out of place. Sarah was sitting peacefully in her chail just like Steve had left her. Her eyes were closed and she had a small smile on her face. Her fingers were slack against her shawl, like she had been trying to tug it closer and ward off the chill.

Steve went over to the kitchen sink and got out a drinking glass, tall enough to act as a vase. He quickly filled it with water and arranging all of the stems just so. She always deserved to be surrounded by beautiful things and he wanted them to be the first thing his mother saw when he woke her up.

He set them gingerly in the window and crouched down beside her. Immediately, he knew something was wrong and his eyebrows came together in a concerned frown. He was hesitant as he reached out a hand to brush away a wisp of hair in his mother’s face. As his fingertips lightly trailed against her forehead, she was cold.

 

###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2015

You can survive without sleep. Or-- You can survive on very little sleep. You can survive without ever achieving what’s known as ‘REM’ sleep; at least that’s what Bruce told him when Steve asked. With the serum, Steve needed it even less, apparently. Steve didn’t think that was exactly fair because he’s been tired since he watched Bucky fall to his death off that train. Now all he really wants is just one good night’s sleep.

Even before the serum, Steve didn’t have nightmares. There were plenty of times when he couldn’t sleep, from physical pain or stress or anxieties. But he never had nightmares. Even after seeing the horrors of war, after the Chitauri attack, after Bucky bleeding him to a bloody pulp on the helicarrier in DC, Steve didn’t have one nightmare.

Except-- except exactly one week after he found his mother dead. He’d had nightmares then. Then, seven days later, they’d stopped completely and he returned to the same dreamless rest he’d always had.

It was a surprise, then, when he woke up in a clammy sweat from a horrible nightmare in his apartment in Brooklyn. His mother’s cold dead hand in his own, Bucky’s frozen fingers slipping from his grasp, ice pressing in around him on the Valkyrie. It took a minute for him to orient himself in the dark room, breathing heavy. He almost didn’t notice the shadowy figure in the corner.

It was Bucky. Steve knew it before he’d even registered the thought. His hair was still long, pulled away from his clean-shaven face. It was slicked back and for a moment Steve would have believed he’d been transported back to 1941. It was his steely eyes, though, that placed him in the context of modern day. Hardened by time and experience, that definitely hadn’t been there before the war. Last time Steve had seen him, almost a year ago, they had been wide, scared, and confused, now they were just dark.

“Do you know me?” There were so many things Steve wanted to ask, important, meaningful things. But of course his brain had never been that great at controlling what came out of his mouth.

He flicked on the lamp on the bedside table, casting the room in a dim orange glow. Bucky stepped forward. He looked… curious.

“You’re Steve.” 

Steve was careful not to let any of his rollercoaster of emotions play out on his face, waiting for Bucky to continue.

“I read about you in a museum.” He rasped; his voice deep and rough from disuse.

Well that was a gigantic goddamn lie. Bucky knew him. Steve saw his guarded recognition splayed across his face, plain as day. He sat up, sliding against the headboard, suddenly very aware of his bare chest. He crossed his arms around himself; Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement.

“What are you doing here?” He tried to sound demanding but it came out barely above a whisper.

Bucky continued to stare at him blankly.

Steve didn’t want to look away but he did, down to his lap where he was fiddling with his thumbs like he always did when he tried to concentrate.

“I’m sorry.” He breathed. He felt his bangs flop into his face, keeping himself well-groomed hadn’t been much of a priority lately. “I’m sorry I didn’t-- It’s  _ my fault _ HYDRA got to you-- I’m-- I…” 

He trailed off when he heard Bucky’s deliberate footsteps fade away down the hall. Steve scrambled out of bed to follow him. He wanted to reach a hand out, put one on his shoulder, God maybe even pull him into a hug. But Steve knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. This wasn’t-- This wasn’t Bucky. This was a trained assassin, a man destroyed by literally decades of torture and abuse. This was somebody new. Steve cursed himself for all those years he pushed Bucky away. Bucky had always been so tactile. Steve could still picture the hurt on Bucky’s face when Steve involuntarily flinched away from a comforting hand on his neck or pat on the knee. What he wouldn’t give to have those moments back, to live them differently.

“Bucky, what--” Steve closed his mouth with an audible click when Bucky whirled around to glare at him. Okay. No talking.

They came to a stop in the living room. Bucky stood in the very middle, sentinel and quiet. Steve hoved in the doorway, unsure. He watched as Bucky shook out of some sort of reverie, glancing over his shoulder as if he’s surprised Steve is still standing there. He motioned to the couch and wrestled with something in the pocket of his leather jacket. Steve took a seat, crossing his arms over his chest again. He should have grabbed a shirt.

Bucky took out a cigarette and lit it, barely glancing at Steve before he spoke.

“I tried to kill you.” He sounded sure and convicted, but not guilty.

“Yes.” Steve said, because he really didn’t know what else to do.

“You’ve been looking for me-- following me.” He had stated pacing.

“Yes.” Steve was not following the plot of this conversation at all.

“Why?” He asked, finally coming to a stop and perching on the coffee table in front of Steve. Bucky looked up at him from under his lashes; the moonlight streaming in from the window illuminated his face beautifully.

“Bucky, I-- Well, because you’re my friend.” Steve’s fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch, to make sure he was  _ real _ .

“You said.” Bucky stared at the smoke coming off of his cigarette. He sighed, hanging his head and pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I’m so lost, Steve.”

Steve took a risk and reached out to grip the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket. He leaned forward, holding on tightly to Bucky’s shoulder and pressed their foreheads together. He breathed out shakily and tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ve got you, Buck-- I’ve found you.”

  
  


###  Manhattan, New York, USA - 2012

In these kinds of situations, there really was no way out but through. And even then, Steve didn’t necessarily want to admit he was only kidding himself thinking there was a way out. It’s not that he didn’t like the 21st century, just that-- well, he didn’t really like the 21st century. He grew up in the city, he was used to noise, but it seemed like now it had been amplified a few overwhelming decibels. That, along with horrible fluorescent lighting everywhere was enough to give him a headache-- if he could still get one. It was like he couldn’t think, couldn’t get his head around the fact that he’d survived and others didn’t and the world kept turning eating up every goddamn day just to mock him. Steve wasn’t adjusting well.

When all those late night hours at the gym did nothing to keep the demons at bay, Steve had to come up with something else to try and combat it. Growing up, he remembered at Christmastime making barmbrack with his mom. It was the one time of year he’d really ever gotten a taste of something sweet. He decided that trying to perfect the recipe would be a good way to get his mind off things. But it just ended up making him more frustrated. It never tasted the same, and after so many months with no success he was about ready to give up.

He tossed the metal mixing bowl into the sink with a loud clang. The kitchen was a mess and he honestly had no idea how long he’d been awake at that point. His eyes itched and his limbs felt heavy, but he was still so  _ restless _ .

“Y’alright?” He heard someone tentatively ask behind him.

He whirled around to see his PA, Marigold, that Pepper had insisted he employ. He was reluctant at first. He knew the way Fury looked at him. It was the same way Senator Brandt did: as a collectible item, a marketing ploy, and public en masse jackpot. Steve didn’t want to be used again, manipulated, or put on a shelf. Pepper had been right though, in the end, he couldn’t possibly keep up with-- well, everything, without at least a little help.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” He murmured, shamefully starting to pick up the mess he’d made in his frustrated rage.

“No I imagine you didn’t.” He waited for her to comment on his bad attitude but she just swiped at the phone in her hand when it chimed.

“Is there something pressing you needed to tell me?” Steve had given her a key for convenience purposes, but he knew she rarely used it. Only whenever he was on missions or running training programmes out of DC or whatever else he could come up with to keep busy and spend less time alone in his giant empty apartment.

“Actually, I wasn’t expecting you to be here. I was going to clean out the fridge and water your plants.” He had plants? “When did you get back?”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Then I got back three days ago.” Nick had been pushing him to just up and move to DC but Steve couldn’t abandon Brooklyn-- especially not after the Charturi attack. He tried to spend as much of his time helping to rebuild but going back and forth usually got in the way.

“Have you slept?” He shrugged. “Well, you should have told me-- I need to know these things to manage your schedule.”

He rolled his eyes and gave her a sardonic smile. “Manage my schedule?”

Of course, Mari was unphased. “Captain Rogers, when I say that, I mostly mean fielding hundreds if not thousands of requests for your presence at any number of events. I’m not here to make sure you remain a public figure-- I’m here to assure that you  _ don’t _ .”

Oh. Well now he felt like an ass. Steve sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my own personal frustrations out on you.” 

“No, you shouldn’t. Now get some rest, I’ll get somebody in here to clean this up.” She fished out the keys to his apartment from her gigantic handbag and walked toward the door again. Pausing mid-step, she turned back to him. “I’m in your corner, Steve, whether you know it or not. Goodnight.”

The moment the door clicked behind her, Steve fell back against the wall. He swallowed thickly, shoved down his emotions and ignored the stinging behind his eyes. 

He turned on the kitchen sink and got out the soap. Nothing could get to him if he was always moving.

 

###  Bucharest, Romania - 2015

It had been three months, one week, and six days since Steve had seen Bucky. Steve had been naive to think he could have Bucky back in his life after that random appearance in his bedroom. Steve hadn’t caught even a single solitary glimpse of him since that night, three months, one week, and six days ago. He didn’t tell anyone he was keeping count. But with the knowing looks everyone threw at him when his back was turned, Steve was just constantly reaffirmed that he really was horrible at keeping secrets.

Bucky was on the run; he had to have been. After the information dump and dissolution of both HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D., governments were just starting to get their feet back underneath them, which meant they were searching for now-known criminals. It sickened Steve to think that Bucky was no longer just wandering about aimlessly trying to find himself, but actively evading multiple government agencies. Neither situation was ideal but the latter was definitely worse.

With about 80% of the world on high alert, it did make finding him a hell of a lot easier.

“ _ Incoming, Cap. _ ” Sam’s voice crackled over the coms.

Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest was just as sparse and rundown as the one in Kyiv. The fluorescent tube hung in the kitchen off-kilter. It flickered and buzzed. Steve picked up a leather journal, Bucky hadn’t had this before, did he? He flipped through the pages of notes and mathematics and pictures cut out of magazines until he felt a presence behind him.

Steve turned around carefully, movements slow and deliberate.

“Bucky.” He looked-- good. Better than before, and Lord knows Steve committed every last minute detail of that night to memory.

Bucky stayed silent.

“I-- you never came back?” He kept his shoulders squared, but he felt anything but confident.

Bucky shrugged.

“ _ On the roof. I’m compromised. _ ” Sam said in his ear.

“There are people, governments— they’re looking for you.”

“They should be, I’m dangerous.” Bucky said flatly.

“You don’t believe that.” Steve insisted.

“No,  _ you _ don’t believe that. I’m fully aware of what I am and the dangers I pose, Steve.” It hurt when Bucky said his name now, like this. It just wasn’t  _ right _ . Things with Bucky weren’t supposed to hurt.

“And what’s that? What are you?” Steve asked, flexing his hand in the holster of his shield. Bucky turned his head to listen to the soldiers’ footsteps overhead.

“ _ Less than a minute. _ ”

He held Steve’s gaze, a challenge. “A weapon.”

Then, finally, the soldiers breached the apartment, the crash of a flash bomb through the window and all hell broke loose.


	5. Part 5 - James Buchanan Barnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd finish this and hey look I did. Sorry it's been like a billion years, I won't bore you with everything that's been going on in my life but it's Alot. Anyway, this chapter is significantly longer than the others, which isn't very much of a consolation considering how long it's been since my last update, but it's something.

###  Birnin Zana, Kingdom of Wakanda - 2017

Coming out of cryo-freeze was nothing like the soldier could describe. It was cold, yes, but also painful. Painful in the way that was almost… good. It was like waking up. A horrible tingling all over his body until it faded, settled. Only then could the soldier open his eyes.

It took him a moment to orient himself, the exceptional weightlessness of his left side, the lack of, uh, well,  _ electrocution _ as he attempted to think clearly, T'Challa’s artfully blank face staring back at him.

Right, he was in Wakanda. He’d been liberated from Hydra. The brainwashing was being removed. He was James Buchanan Barnes. He was safe.

Bucky had specifically asked Steve not to be there when they decided to thaw him out. As he peered around the laboratory, he didn’t know if he was grateful or not that they had respected his wishes.

“Have a nice nap?” One of the doctors, well, Bucky assumed she was a doctor, said. T'Challa elbowed her in the ribs.

“Sergeant Barnes, we think we’ve come up with a way to help you.” T'Challa said as a nurse helped Bucky sit on an examination table.

He felt himself smirk, and a small part of his brain wondered why it felt so natural to do so. “I figured you did, seeing as I’m awake and all.” Bucky looked around warily at some of the equipment in the room. “It doesn’t involve brain surgery, does it?”

The other doctor laughed. “Eh, not exactly.” She held out her hand. “I’m Shuri.”

Bucky shook it.

“What my sister means to explain is that we think focused meditation and some very  _ very _ non-invasive brain surgery could work for you.”

“No. No way. Put me back under.” There was  _ no way _ he was letting  _ anyone _ near his fucking brain ever again.

T'Challa tried to reason with him. “Sergeant Barnes--”

“How long was I out?” He asked sharply.

“I-- Just over six months.” All of the other nurses and staff were watching Bucky like he could snap. Maybe he could.

“That’s not a very long time at all. Put me back under and don’t wake me up until you have something that  _ doesn’t _ involve anyone messing with my head.” He growled.

“We don’t think the cryo-freeze is doing you any favors,” Shuri said.

Bucky rounded his glare back at her. “What?”

“It could actually be hurting you, not allowing your brain to heal itself. Since you have some form of enhanced serum-- I’m still trying to work out what exactly it is-- if you just allowed yourself enough time, you could theoretically go back to normal.”

“Normal?” He whispered, looking down at his lap. “How long?”

“We don’t know. Hence, brain surgery.” She explained. He raised an eyebrow. “To help speed things along.”

“So I can opt out?” 

The siblings exchanged a look. “Yes... I guess you could.” Shuri said.

Bucky stared intently at his lap.

“Are you sure?” T'Challa asked quietly.

“Not that I don’t trust you, but… I don’t trust you. And I think my brain has been through the blender enough not to risk it again.”

Shuri opened her mouth like she was about to speak, but T'Challa held out his hand to silence her. “That’s understandable. So long as you agree to stay out of cryo freeze for a significant amount of time, and allow us to monitor your progress, then all will be well.”

It seems too easy-- too simple. But Bucky learned a long time ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

###  Kyiv, Ukraine - 2014

James knew he was being followed. He had a horrible prickling fear at the back of his neck. It’d been there since DC. James had been beginning to think he must just be paranoid by nature. But this time he knew it. Of course, he’d set up failsafes in any apartment, or campsite, or extended stay motel he holed himself up in to know when someone had broken in. He cataloged exactly where everything was placed, even if shifted just a hair out of where he had it, James could tell. He got his hands on a computer and had been through multiple phones that would alert him to anyone looking up his aliases, especially law enforcement.

James knew he was being followed the moment his apartment block came into view. He quickly turned on his heel and walked the other way. He should have known this would happen. Well, he did have an inclination, which is why he hadn’t actually been back to said apartment block in almost two weeks. But he had hoped that he was wrong. He had a nest set up in the abandoned warehouse two blocks away, perfect view into his apartment’s living room. Two men had been tailing him since… a long while. Off and on, he was able to shake them, sometimes. But as the migraines got worse and his memories started coming back James had gotten… curious. Curious enough to start leaving intentional breadcrumbs. Enough so James could keep an eye on them but not too much so that they could actually spot  _ him _ . They’d gotten close this time, though. Bucky had just been returning to grab a few last minute items, provisions he may have need of on the next leg of his journey, nothing he couldn’t pick up somewhere else along the way.

James climbed the stairs two at a time, boots silent against the rusty metal. He got out his rifle and went to the window, snapping the legs in place. It nestled right in the T corners he had set out ages ago. Crouching down to peer through the viewfinder, James watched as his two shadows haphazardly perused the now-abandoned apartment.  _ Captain America _ and  _ The Falcon _ . He knew who they were. There was a muddled confusion behind his eyes and he had to lean back to blink through the pain. Targets acquired. Pierce flashed their faces in front of him. Meeting Rumlow at the rendezvous. Falcon careening over the side of the helicarrier. Captain America’s face bruised, puffy, and bloodied. Then suddenly it was his same face, slimmer, paler, still bruised but not from Bucky’s hands…

He furrowed his brow and leaned forward again. Once he got Captain America’s broad shoulders in the center of his crosshairs, James breathed out slowly. Very carefully, he kept his finger away from the trigger and simply watched. Steve turned around again, slumping into the chair behind him. James recentered on his face and watched as he lit a cigarette. He could see Falcon’s profile, but not enough to read his lips. They were speaking English.

_ “I wonder if Bucky remembers.” _

James wrenched his head away from the scope, immediately turning around to pack up his things. He disassembled his rifle with deft hands, carefully snapping the case closed again. He slung his backpack over his other shoulder, pulled his hood up over his head, and walked back out into the bright sunlight.

###  Manhattan, New York, USA - 2017

“He  _ killed _ my  _ parents _ , Steven.” He could hear Tony seethe. “I can’t just-- just let that go.”

“ _ Hydra _ killed your parents, Tony. The government did.” Steve said, obviously trying to sound diplomatic. Bucky didn’t think he was helping the situation much at all by bringing that up.

Tony scoffed. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.” There was some rustling on the other side of the wall. Maybe Bucky should let them know he could hear them. “They died at his hand, bottom line.”

Steve sighed. Bucky could imagine the look on his face, all pinched and frustrated. “I’m sorry, Tony, and he is too, but there has to be some way-- a way that we can come to an agreement about this.”

“He’s sorry.” Tony deadpanned. Bucky’s head hurt again. It’d been less and less since working with the doctors, his therapist, in Wakanda, but there was still pain. “ _ He’s sorry? _ Sorry isn’t good enough.”

“Tony,” Clint said, because apparently, this was an as-many-Avengers-as-were-available kind of meeting. “He was brainwashed. He didn’t even know his own name. I would have thought you could understand that.”

There was a long silence and Bucky waited to hear Tony get up and leave. He didn’t.

“I’m feeling very cornered right now. Is really no one on my side about this?” Tony said in a very small voice.

“It’s not about sides.” That was Natasha. Bucky was still piecing together how and when he actually knew her-- met her.

“Is that so?” Tony asked, a skeptic lilt to his voice.

“Alright, I have an honest question.” Clint paused, probably for Tony to make a motion that he could continue. “Do you think…” Clint’s voice wavered just a fraction. “That the families of-- of the people that I…” His breath hitched. “When Loki was…” He trailed off again. There was some more rustling and footsteps. “No, Natasha. Don’t I’m-- Look, do you think that the families of the agents and civilians I killed while my mind was being controlled by Loki would be justified in feeling towards me the way that you do right now? Or would you say that their anger is misplaced and that the blame should really be on Loki since I didn’t have any control over myself?”

“Well... but that’s different--”

“How? How was that different?” Clint stressed.

Tony took a deep breath. “Those people-- You were… He’s asking to be part of the  _ team _ , for me to see him  _ every day _ , to  _ trust _ \--”

“No, he’s not.” Steve tried to interrupt.

“Well, what would you say he’s asking for, then, Steve?” Tony bit back acridly.

“He’s not asking for anything,” Steve said with a measured calm.

“If he’s not, then why the hell are we all even--”

“ _ I am _ .” Steve burst out suddenly. “I’m asking. I need him here. I-- He’s doing so much better and he says he’s ready and I need him. I need him here, I’ve always needed him and  _ I _ still want to be part of this team. Not him, just me. So, yeah, that may mean Bucky would be around more. You’ll probably have to see him, and I would  _ like it _ if you two could get along because you’re my friend and Bucky’s my--” He paused, clearing his throat. “But I’m not going to ask that from you I just wanted to talk to you about it, because I knew you had… feelings about it, and I want us to continue to be able to trust each other, like you said, that’s important, and…”

“So you’re just letting me know where your allegiance lies. Thanks for the update.” Tony huffed.

“What? No! Fuck, Tony, didn’t you-- No, I’m saying, I care about you both and I want to have you both in my life. There is tension between you and I’m not going to pussyfoot around the idea, not anymore like I have been.” Steve said. 

Even with Bucky’s spotty and limited memory, this was the most he’d ever heard Steve curse in one conversation.

“Like you have been? What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, so now I need to be treated with kid gloves is that it?” Bucky could almost hear Tony’s teeth grinding together.

“Well, can you be adult and reasonable about it?” Steve was starting to sound a little petulant.

“This is turning into a circular argument.” Vision helpfully supplied.

He heard Tony let out a harsh, angry breath. “Fine, Rogers, do whatever the hell you want I don’t know why you thought you needed my permission to have  _ friends _ .” A door swung open. “I’m going to go spend some time with Pepper in Malibu. If the world needs saving again or whatever, you know where to find me.”

Bucky winced as a door slammed, followed by a huge crash. He waited patiently where Steve had left him, in a random office that he said was his own but looked so unused Bucky doubted anyone but the maid ever came in. He rolled a cigarette between his fingers; he didn’t know if he could smoke inside so he had refrained. But the waiting, and subsequent overhearing, had made him nervous. So skittish that he jolted when Steve opened the door. 

Slipping the fag behind his ear, Bucky stood up.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Steve asked, with confident assurance of Bucky’s answer. He wasn’t accusatory, though.

Bucky shrugged, his mouth tugging down into a frown.

“How much?” Bucky just stared at his feet. “All of it?” Steve sounded sad, instead of angry like Bucky thought he should have been.

“I’m sorry, I--”

“No, Buck, it’s okay. You… at least I don’t have to try and summarize it all for you.” He took a step forward, like he was going to reach out and touch Bucky, but when he flinched-- he didn’t mean to flinch,  _ god _ he didn’t mean to-- Steve pulled away.

“Maybe I should go back--”

“No! No, Bucky--” Steve tried to interrupt him, but Bucky just kept pressing forward. He had to get this out.

“ _ Maybe I should go back _ and spend more time… there. I was fine with M’Koni and her family, helping out on the farm, it was… it was good for me.” Bucky looked down at his hand. He didn’t like wearing any prosthetic anymore, even though Shuri had made him almost a dozen different models.

Steve’s voice was so small, obviously hurt, but still so careful to spare Bucky’s feelings. “Do you-- Do you want to go back?”

‘ _ I need him here, _ ’ rattled around in his head. But he wasn’t doing this for Steve. He wasn’t coming back, coming  _ home _ just because Steve missed him. Bucky wanted to do this for himself. To gain a little bit more back of who he was. Wakanda was amazing, the people, the technology, the agriculture, it gave Bucky a place to work hard at something, do something with his hands-- hand, that wasn’t destructive. It was a great place to heal and to grow and to figure out who he was  _ now _ . Not 1940’s Bucky, Sergeant Barnes, not Soldat, not even  _ James _ , just himself. Be he’d come to realize out there, laboring under the burning Wakandan sun, that all those other identities had to be part of himself too. And the only real way he could connect with his past was to go there, no matter how different or modern it might now be.

“No, I don’t want to go back.” He said, decisively.

This time, Bucky held very still as Steve reached out, watching his every move. Steve wasn’t hesitant, just slow and deliberate, as he reached out a hand and caressed Bucky’s face. It felt-- complete. When his palm perfectly cradled Bucky’s cheek, calloused thumb brushing on top of his cheekbone, Bucky felt finished and whole in a way he hadn’t in a long, long time. He closed his eyes, willing the tears not to spill over.

“Then you’ll stay. And we’ll figure it out, together.” Steve whispered. Bucky could feel the heat radiating off of his chest as he stepped even closer.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Bucky murmured, tipping his head down and forward to rest against one of Steve’s pectorals.

“‘Til the end of the line.” Steve replied.

 

###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 1934

Bucky glanced back up the alley to make sure he wasn’t being watched before he swung himself up to grab hold of the fire escape. He knew just the right places to step on and cling to so the worn metal wouldn’t make a sound. It was late. Bucky didn’t even look at the clock before he’d left his house, but he knew it had to be late. That time of night between dark midnight and early morning where everything felt surreal and mysterious.

Steve’s window was already open. It was summer and hot as the dickens, it seemed like every window in New York City was open, desperate and hopeful for a lick of the nonexistent breeze.

Bucky was almost positive Mrs. Rogers knew whenever he snuck into their apartment, no matter how quiet he was or how early he tried to leave. He probably could have just gone through the front door; he’d known where they hid their spare key for ages. But then, where was the fun in that?

Even after all these years of being friends, of sneaking into Steve’s bed, Bucky had yet to find a way to crawl under the covers without the bedframe letting out a horrible tinning squeak. It woke Steve up every time, without fail.

“Hm? Buck?” Steve mumbled, turning over on his back to squint at him in the dim light.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He never had to, Steve just slid over to make room, disentangling his skinny arms from the threadbare topsheet. He picked up his head and offered up the other half of his pillow for Bucky to share.

“Your Pa again?” Steve was still half asleep, lips barely moving as he tried to talk.

Bucky grunted, noncommittal. He brought his right arm up and tucked it behind his head, the other fiddling with a button on his shirt.

It wasn’t that his Pop was a mean drunk. He wasn’t mean at all, really. And Bucky should be thankful Pop was around at all, let alone able to actually hold down a job. He had a lot to be thankful for.

But Pop was a drunk. And when he drank, he would get this vacant look in his eye and a slur around his words that put Bucky on edge. He never yelled, he never hit any of the girls, Lord knows Bucky wouldn’t have stood for that at all, but he just wasn’t himself. He’d talk and ramble on about horrible things, gruesome things he’d seen during the war, shit that made no sense if you thought about it long enough. He’d sit in his armchair in the livingroom, whiskey bottle clutched loose in his hand. Bucky didn’t have a bedroom, not since Adelaide and Constance were born and the girls needed more space. He slept on the couch, or he tried to. Sometimes Pop would cry. Just sit there sobbing all night long until the sun came up. Only then would he finally pass out, followed by a loud clank as the glass slipped from his fingers. Those nights, Bucky would lay on the lumpy, itchy, old sofa with his eyes closed, trying not to wince every time George hiccupped.

It was disgustingly hot and stuffy inside, but still Steve’s toes were like ice as he pressed them up against Bucky’s thigh. 

“Jesus, Stevie, fuck.” Bucky cursed, but he didn’t flinch away.

“S’rry.” Steve tugged at Bucky’s arm, slipping underneath when he held it up. His soft blond hair tickled Bucky’s chin as he pressed his cheek up against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky stared at a stain in the ceiling until his eyes burned from keeping them open so long. Steve’s breath puffed out regularly against his collar. Bucky’s thumb brushed rhythmically against Steve’s ribs, over and over and over, until his mind finally quieted. He turned his head to peer out the open window, he could see the sky through a tiny sliver between the buildings. It was cloudy.

###  Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2017

Bucky was curled up reading a book in a rusty, was-probably-green-at-some-point, folding beach chair on the roof of his apartment building. Steve helped him get a place that was really only a few short blocks away from their old neighborhood. Technically, it was Bucky’s apartment, but Steve had pretty much moved in by now. He was always hanging around, or at least when he wasn’t away on missions. Which he was. Today.

Steve had left on a mission earlier that morning, while the sky was still dark outside and the frosty chill blanketed the city. Bucky did actually have a guest room, but it never got used. For about a week Steve determinately started out in his own bed, but after night after night of migrating over to Bucky’s bunk, they’d just given up any pretenses. When Steve got the call, he answered it quietly, clicking on the dim reading lamp that sat on the bedside table. He gingerly shuffled out of bed. Bucky rolled over and watched him throw a duffle bag together, eyes still hooded and half asleep.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, something easy to change out of because he never took the suit home. Steve turned around to say goodbye and he startled a little when he saw Bucky was awake. Usually Bucky pretended to be asleep until after Steve was actually gone.

“Hey, uh, got a mission,” He whispered, like Bucky didn’t already know that. Steve perched himself on the edge of the bed and, always so hesitant, tucked a loose strand of Bucky’s hair back behind his ear. “Should be a short one, I’ll be home tonight or early tomorrow.” He forced a smile that looked downright painful. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, of course, Stevie. Why wouldn’t I be?” They both knew why he wouldn’t be but Bucky didn’t want him to worry and Steve wanted to believe him.

“Okay,” he breathed. He looked like he wanted to say something else but Bucky didn’t prompt him about it so he stood and left without another word.

He’d spent the rest of the day like he always did. Cleaned the kitchen after breakfast, then the living room, then all his guns. He went to the bodega on the corner to buy ingredients for dinner and made small talk with the old man behind the counter. Texted Rebecca and Cassie, the girls from California who he actually was able to track down again, and gave his opinion about their kitchen remodel. He looked up a bunch of stuff on the internet and journaled in one of his many notebooks, still trying to piece together exactly where all his memories fit along a consecutive timeline. It was a normal day, all said and done. It was normal and good and  _ healthy _ . And, no, being with Steve hadn’t been the cure-all for his life, not that he ever thought it would have been, but Bucky had to admit that being with Steve had  _ helped _ , so far.

Now, though, he was pretending to read his favorite book, favorite even before the war. His eyes were drawn to look at the unfamiliar Manhattan skyline over the East River. He staved off the windchill with a musty wool blanket that positively reeked of mothballs. Clutching it tighter around himself, he went back to reading. He was just to the part where Phileas Fogg was about to rescue Aouda from committing sati, the best part of the whole thing as far as Bucky was concerned, when the metal pipe he had propping open the door clanged briefly as it was disturbed. Bucky didn’t take his eyes off the page in front of him, but listened intently, recognizing Steve’s gait.

There wasn’t another seat up here. Which was kind of stupid because Bucky ended up on the roof a lot, always feeling stifled when he was indoors too long. And if Bucky spent so much time on the roof, that meant Steve spent just as much time up here with him. But there was never a chair for him to use.

Bucky felt the air displace beside him as Steve sat down. He could see the hint of his bare arms crossed over his knees just on the edge of his peripheral vision. When he leaned his head against the armrest, Bucky could smell his strawberry-scented shampoo. Bucky shifted in place and, without letting go if his book, reached out his pinky to rub against Steve’s kneecap, soft denim under the pad of his finger.

“How’d it go?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

He could feel Steve tense, and then slowly relax. “No casualties.”

Bucky knew that was the best he could ask for most of the time. Things would go better, easier, if only Steve didn’t feel so much goddamn guilt and fucking personal responsibility for every--

“I can’t believe you’re reading Jules Verne  _ again _ ,” Steve said, craning his neck around to see the cover. “They’ve come out with thousands of new science fiction novels, I know you’d love if you just gave them a chance.”

Bucky finally looked up to meet his eyes. “ _ How _ many times have you read  _ The Sun Also Rises _ ?” He raised an eyebrow and reveled in the blush that bloomed along the apples of Steve’s cheeks. He moved his thumb from the spine of the book, letting it fall shut against the bookmark, and reached out to cup Steve’s chin, pressing into the corner of his mouth. It was a move very reminiscent of his mother, which surprised him both because he actually  _ remembered _ his mother and also because who actually likes realizing they’re turning into their parents? “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He murmured, smile tugging at his lips.

Instead of wrenching his head out of Bucky’s grasp, playing it off like a joke, Steve just grinned up at him. It felt like all the love in the world filled his eyes and Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. He stared blankly at the maroon cover in his lap.

It felt like there was a hot lead weight right in the middle of his gut. Bucky didn’t like it. 

There was a long silence that seemed to stretch on forever with Bucky’s eyes intent on his abandoned mug of tea on the ground in front of him and Steve hunched over resting his chin on his knee.

“Steve, I--” Bucky started suddenly. It surprised him; he hadn’t meant to actually let any words out this time. He didn’t want to bring it up, but now Steve was staring at him expectantly and Bucky resigned himself to having to continue. “What were we? Back then,” he clarified, not that he needed to. It seemed like Steve always knew what he was trying to talk about.

He was quiet for such a long moment. So long that Bucky had kind of written it off that  _ maybe _ he hadn’t actually said anything out loud after all. That would have been ideal.

“You were my best friend,” Steve said with a sort of cagey finality that didn’t sit well with him.

“And what are we now?” Bucky pressed on. He’d made his bed, might as well lie in it.

Steve sighed in that put-out kind of way he had always so good at doing. “Well I don’t want to speak to how you feel, but you’re still my best friend.”

When Bucky turned his head just enough to look at him, Steve had his face turned up at the sky, not exactly pleading for something from someone, but more that he needed a neutral place to look at.

“You’re lying.” Maybe he wasn’t so good at reading people anymore, but he sure as hell knew when Steve wasn’t giving the whole truth.

Still watching the blank clouds, he scoffed. “I’m really not.”

Bucky tried to let it go, he really did. But after a moment he found himself opening his mouth again. “Have you thought about it?”

A puff of air, frustrated, came from Steve’s lips. “Buck, you gotta cool it with this existential interview.”

Oh, okay. “Sorry,” he breathed, shuffling his book off his lap and moving to get up.

Steve put a hand on his thigh. “No, wait. I didn’t mean that. Just-- What’s on your mind?”

Bucky got up anyway, but he didn’t leave. He walked just to the edge of the roof, staring at nothing, hand stuffed into his pocket. “I know, sometimes, I couldn’t even tell you how to spell my own name, but I-- I remember… I thought things would be different. Now.” He spoke barely above a whisper, words carried away by the wind. He knew Steve could still hear him.

There was a frustrated lilt to Steve’s voice. “Bucky… What do you mean?” He stood from his crouch and stepped closer; faint heat from his body radiated against Bucky’s back.

Bucky itched to have something in his hands, something to fiddle with and give him some direction. He’s definitely not as eloquent as he used to be. Maybe he shouldn’t try talking about it at all. Bucky tried to keep a cap on his amount of rash decision making; there was instinctual and there was rash, and those were two different things. Braced ready for a fight, he turned around and met Steve’s keen, calculating face. 

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“I want what we couldn’t have before.” Voicing his desires. Bucky was getting better at that.

There was a fraction of a moment where Steve didn’t do anything. But then his eyes went wide with understanding and surprise. His breath hitched and his arms-- his whole body, really, rocked forward in a sort of knee-jerk reaction to get closer, but then settled back again like he wanted to reach out and decided against it. Noticing all these details, watching the expressions play across Steve’s face, felt like a rejection. A rejection that hurt.

They stood, stoically gazing at each other for what felt like an eternity. Bucky had shown his hand, he had nothing else left to  _ do _ . Steve’s brow furrowed together and his eyes darted around to different parts of Bucky’s face, cataloging. They settled on his lips. Quicker than Bucky was ready for it, but really he’d been ready and waiting for more almost a century, Steve stepped forward and crashed their lips together.

It was hot, burning, overwhelming in the best of ways. Every part of him, every facet of his perception, focused down to that one feeling. Maybe Bucky couldn’t remember every time he had wanted this, desired Steve, but he still knew that this was only a culmination of a lifetime waiting in the shadows.

They broke apart and Bucky kept his hand wrapped around Steve’s waist.Their faces were so close it felt like they were breathing the same air. For a moment, Bucky paused and allowed himself to just  _ be _ , to exist in this moment, and know that it was real.

The wind blew and it raised goosebumps up along his arm, tousling his hair so that it fell away from where it was tucked behind his ear. Steve reached with his free hand and brought it back against his face.

“I love you,” Steve whispered, a small smile on his face.

Bucky hesitated, wary. “Why didn’t you-- sooner… How long…” He almost didn’t want to know the answer. “How long have you wanted this? Between us?”

Steve stayed silent, which was answer enough.

“You should have said.” But Steve was shaking his head before Bucky’d even finished.

“I didn’t want you to feel pressure, I thought… I thought it’d be a distraction, from your recovery.” He ran his hand up and down Bucky’s arm. “Besides, I-- even if just… knowing you were alive, alive  _ and safe _ , even if that was all I could have it would have been enough.” He searched Bucky’s face for a calculating moment. “You’ve already given me more than I ever thought was possible.”

Bucky very determinately did not blush. “I can’t say that it won’t be different now.  _ We’re _ different now, but I do remember… parts, some of it, and I--”

“Nothing has to change if you don’t want to!” Steve was quick to interject.

He gave him an unimpressed stare. “Yeah, I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” He mumbled  _ sorry _ under his breath, tucking his chin. “Have you even heard what I’ve been tryin’ to say here? Or did that doc really not fix your ears neither?” He teased, slipping into his old Brooklyn accent, easy as breathing.

Steve’s eyes sparkled, obviously trying to tamp down a delighted grin. “Nah, I heard.”

Bucky, because he could, surged up to kiss him again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> [HERE](http://radiantbeams.tumblr.com/post/184089492694/see-the-stars-again-22k-james-bucky) is a link to a tumblr post if you would like to reblog! (please do, I need validation)


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